


The Abstract Notion of Home

by wallflowerchronicles



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Fluff, Iowa, M/M, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, radio show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 100,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowerchronicles/pseuds/wallflowerchronicles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An American university AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing this! And to [ramblingsofapharmacist](http://ramblingsofapharmacist.tumblr.com/) and [thequeenofmysticalcheese](http://thequeenofmysticalcheese.tumblr.com/) for helping be brainstorm ideas. And to [amethyst-winter](http://amethyst-winter.tumblr.com/), because she was there too. 
> 
> This one's been in the works for a long, long time.
> 
> UPDATE: This fic is currently being translated into [Russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5870850).

I step outside of the tiny airport that probably only has 10 gates in total and assess the reality of my new situation.

I can’t see much apart from the parking garage that’s just across the street, but what is immediately apparent is that it’s obnoxiously hot and humid. The electronic sign above my head tells me that it’s 3:43 PM Central Standard Time and that the temperature is 97 degrees Fahrenheit. Subtracting 30 and dividing by 2 tells me that that is roughly 34 Celsius. I feel like I’m being sautéed in a pan of boiling butter.

Black skinny jeans were probably not the best choice of attire for a sweltering August day, but about 80% of the trousers I own are skinny jeans, and approximately 90% of the clothes I own are black. So. But that’s math I don’t feel like doing in my head.

I drag my two giant suitcases toward the row of taxis that are parked to the right of the main doors. I climb into the one at the front of the line, while the driver heaves my bags into the trunk. The backseat smells vaguely of industrial cleaner, which makes me wonder if someone has vomited in here recently. But I’m hardly bothered because the air conditioning is bliss.

The cabbie doesn’t have the radio on, so I put on my headphones and hit shuffle on my phone, hoping to avoid pointless small talk. A Paramore song fills my ears, and it makes me think of my girlfriend Haley. Well, ex-girlfriend.

I introduced her to that band about two years ago, and she fell in love with them instantly. She even dyed her hair pink last summer, in the hopes of being more like Hayley Williams. She was already tiny and spunky, but my Haley was never that good of a singer. Not that I ever admitted that to her face.

Now, one of my favorite bands will probably always make me think of this girl who dumped me when I was a teenager. It’s strange; the scars that people manage leave on your life.

Not that our breakup was all that traumatic. Haley was going to uni in one city, I was going to uni in another. Until I wasn’t anymore, but that didn’t matter. She was going away, so she ended it. One of my friends told me that she was an ungrateful bitch for not even trying to make things work, but it wasn’t like that. We wouldn’t have been good at the long distance thing. Most people aren’t. Haley knew that. I know that now, too. She was always more sensible than me, so in June, she grabbed the scissors and cut the cord first.

It stung at first, but once the wound scabbed over I realized that it had been the right thing to do. Six months ago, I would have said that I was in love with the girl. Now, I’m not so sure that I ever was.

We cross a river and then briefly get on a highway. The scenery grows progressively more urban along the way, the houses closer together. We eventually emerge from the residential area at a wide intersection. Across the street there are large brick buildings trimmed with well-manicured landscapes; the edge of the university campus.

I spot a large, ornate sign on the corner that reads _Mallard University, Home of the Ducks_. The Mallard Ducks? Jesus Christ.

How the fuck did I end up in a place like this?

It’s my own damn fault, of course. Well, mostly.

I had a conditional acceptance to the University of Manchester to start on a law degree, provided that my A levels came back sufficiently adequate. But then Haley dumped me at the beginning of summer when we still could have had almost three months together. And then I realized that I didn’t miss her nearly as much as I thought I should.

I started questioning why I had chosen law in the first place. Sure, it would make me look clever and employable someday, but was it really a good fit? No. Because I wouldn’t have been doing it for me. I would have been doing it to make my parents happy, to make them proud. I started to wonder if I was really living my own life, or if I was just trying to prove that even if I had been an accident, I wasn’t a mistake.

Taking a gap year seemed like a good idea. I could work, maybe even travel a little, and figure out what I wanted to do with my life. In desperate frustration, I phoned the university one day and deferred my enrollment until the following year. I didn’t even bother to tell my parents before I did it, which was fucking stupid. I knew that, and I did it anyway.

And then I lost my job at the DIY shop for being late one time too many. Good riddance, I hated that place anyway. Except that I was going to need money to get through the year.

I called the university back, told them I’d changed my mind. The office lady sounded vaguely sympathetic, but told me that it was too late. They’d already given my position to someone on the waiting list.

Fuck.

But the office lady had a solution to my problem, she told me. There were still a few openings left in the university’s foreign exchange program. I could pay a year’s tuition to the University of Manchester, and they would send me abroad for a year. It would be a perfect opportunity to take some time to think and sort out my life.

It was a decent enough plan. My options were to go to Germany, Brazil, or the United States.

I thought America sounded the most exciting. I hoped I’d be sent somewhere interesting like Denver or Seattle. Or someplace warm for the winter, like Florida or LA. Or maybe a big city, like Boston or New York.  But no. No, I was placed at a small, private university in the middle of Iowa. I’d never even heard of that state, though Wikipedia quickly informed me that the place is basically just a giant fucking cornfield. The university is located in the capital, which has a population of less than half a million people. That’s what passes for civilization here, a few hundred thousand people and an airport with 10 gates.

But I’m stuck here until May, so I’ll have to try to make the best of it. That’s all the optimism I can muster at this point.

The taxi makes a right turn, and then comes to a stop in front of Carpenter Hall, my home for the next nine months. There are a few other cars parked along the street unloading plastic totes and mini fridges, but I would guess that most of the other students have already finished moving in. I pay the driver with my strangely textured American dollars, and haul my bags up the pavement to the front door.

I walk through a short entryway lined with small mailboxes set into the wall on either side and spot what looks to be the front desk just beyond, where a young woman with mousey brown hair looks at me expectantly. She seems to be in her mid to late twenties, and her nametag reads: “Mallory Jacobson, Hall Director”. I mutter some sort of self-introduction, and she crosses my name off of a list with her red pen.

“You’ll be in room 229, which is one floor up,” she explains, handing me two keys. “The smaller key is for your mailbox. The kitchen and laundry room are in the basement. After today, you’ll need your student ID to unlock the doors to the building.” She flips through a small box of ID cards, but unsurprisingly, doesn’t find mine, because it doesn’t exist yet. “You probably didn’t come to summer orientation, did you?”

I tell her that no, I didn’t, on account of not knowing that I was coming here at all until a few weeks ago. She tells me that I’ll need to go have my picture taken and my ID printed at the Student Life Office, which is in Oelwein Center. She also hands me a packet of papers that I need to read, sign, and return to the front desk within the next day or so, and dismisses me with a polite smile.

My bags are heavy, so I cop out and take the lift.

Two nametags made from colored cardstock and markers are stuck to the door of room 229, which read ‘Daniel’ and ‘Nathan’. I’m less than thrilled about the prospect of sharing a room with someone, not that I have much of a choice. At least in Manchester I would have had my own bedroom. It seems cruel and unusual to force students to live here without any kind of privacy. I mean, how will I ever have a wank? But maybe that’s the point.

I open the door to find that my roommate has already moved in but is nowhere in sight. The illusive Nathan has claimed the right side of the room and has chosen to loft his bed so that the mattress is about two feet beneath the ceiling. Under the bed, he’s placed his desk, which faces the window directly opposite the door, as well as his three-drawer dresser topped with a small microwave. A black mini fridge is neatly slotted between them.

There are two deep wardrobes on either side of the door that are made of the same light colored wood as the rest of the furniture. My roommate’s navy blue and orange bedding seems to match the Chicago Bears poster hung above his bed. An American football team, I think. There’s a Budweiser poster next to that, which features three women in red bikinis posed suggestively around a giant pint of beer. So these are the gods he worships. I may not have even met this guy yet, but he seems like kind of an asshole.

My empty bed is positioned at a normal height, but is just high enough that my dresser fits snuggly beneath it. My desk is between the foot of the bed and the wardrobe, facing toward the window. I decide that I’m happy keeping my furniture where it is, mostly because I’m too lazy to move it. I hoist my bags onto the bare mattress, and promise myself that I’ll unpack everything later.

I step over to the large window at the far end of the narrow room. I have a pretty nice view of the grassy area in the center of the four interconnected freshman dorms. There are several large trees and a few stone benches placed in their shade.

It looks nice from inside the air-conditioned building, but I know better. And I have to go back outside again anyway to get my ID. I won’t be able to get into the building tomorrow without it, and I’m guessing that I need it to eat at the dining hall as well. If anything can motivate me out of procrastination, it’s food.

I exit the building through the back door and cross the metal bridge that spans across the small valley that I can see from my window. Oelwein Center turns out not to be very far away, up the hill to the south just past the dining hall. I realize as I’m pulling the door open that the guy who followed me out of the dorm is still following me.

I step inside the building, and pause to look for a sign that might point me in the direction of the Student Life Office. The guy behind me does the same.

“Are you here to get your ID too?” he asks. He’s considerable shorter than me and has blond hair that’s pushed up at the front. He’s wearing a tank top and black thick-rimmed glasses.

“Yeah, I am,” I tell him. I spot a short line of people to our left waiting outside of an office door. “I think it’s this way.”

“Hi, I’m Tom,” he says, extending his hand toward me. I pause for a moment; unsure of whether he is offering a handshake or some sort of dude-bro chest bump maneuver. I shake his hand, which seems to be the safest option, and introduce myself. “Dude, where are you from?” Tom asks, clearly taken aback by my accent.

“England,” I tell him. I walk over to join the line, and he follows me.

“Far out! I thought I might be the furthest from home in the FYS, but I guess not.”

I have no idea what the hell an FYS is. “Where are you from?”

“Pasadena,” says Tom. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I still have no idea where that is. “It’s in California.”

“Oh, right. So we’re in the same… FYS?”

“First year seminar? Everybody who lives on our side of second floor is in the same one. The Shakespeare class?”

I loosely recall that one of the emails from the administrator person who enrolled me in my courses at Mallard had mentioned something about a first year seminar being required for all first year students. There was only one that still had openings, a class called _Shakespeare’s Histories: Power, Triumph, and Tragedy_. “The one with the wordy title?”

“Dude, that wasn’t anywhere nearly the worst one on the list. Didn’t you see the one that’s called _Zombies! The Zombie Apocalypse in Film, Literature_ , _and Culture_?”

I explain how I only enrolled a few weeks ago and had been placed in the only class that was still open.

“Oh, gotcha,” Tom replies. “Well, I’m sure we’ll hear all about the ridiculous ones from other people during Welcome Weekend.” I have no idea what Welcome Weekend is, but given that today, the required move-in day, is Wednesday, and classes don’t start until Monday, I’m reasonably certain that it’s some sort of ominous, required ordeal looming in my near future. I could ask Tom to explain, he seems nice enough to not be bothered, but it’s my turn to step into the room to have my picture taken and my ID printed.

“I’ll see you at the floor meeting later,” Tom says as I step out of the office and he steps in.

“Right, see you there,” I say, though I haven’t a clue when or where this meeting is taking place. I definitely need to check my Mallard email. As I’m walking out of the building, I wonder if maybe Tom expected me to wait for him so that we could walk back to Carpenter together. It probably would have been the friendly thing to do, but I just met the guy. It’s not like we’re friends.

Upon returning to my room, I find that my roommate is still nowhere to be found. I dig my laptop out of my backpack, and am able to connect to the university’s wifi without too much trouble.

I send a quick message to my mum to let her know that I’ve arrived safely before logging in to the Mallard student portal. Sure enough, I have quite a few unread emails. I need to remember to check this account more often.

There is a message with the subject line “Move-in procedures” from a mallory.jacobson@mallard.edu that probably would have been more helpful if I had read it prior to today. I delete it and click on another, which is from andrew.isakson@mallard.edu:

 

 _Hello Carpenter Hall 2_ _nd_ _Floor Residents!_

_My name is Andrew Isakson, and I will be your RA (resident assistant) for the upcoming school year. I live in room 226, which is right across from the stairwell._

_We will have our first mandatory floor meeting at 7PM on move-in day. We will meet on Henderson Commons, the grassy area between Huxley (the dining hall) and Meriden. If you have any questions about move-in day or if there’s anything else I can help you with, my email and phone number are listed below. I look forward to meeting you all soon!_

 

At least I haven’t missed the meeting. Though if I hadn’t bumped into Tom, I probably would have.

There’s another message with the subject line: Greetings from your PMAC! Everyone seems a bit overly fond of acronyms around here in my opinion.

 

_Hello Friends!_

_I’m Phil, and I’m your PMAC (Peer mentor and academic consultant) for your FYS this fall. I’ll be guiding you through your Welcome Weekend and will also be helping Dr. Anderson with some of your class activities. We will meet at 9 AM (I know, I’m sorry, I didn’t make the schedule) on Thursday in the grassy area between the student union and the business school so that we can walk over to the Welcome Weekend opening ceremony together. I’ll have a poster that says FYS #19 (that’s you) so that you can find me._

_Please let me know if you have any questions or if there is anything I can help you with as you transition into college life._

_Welcome to Mallard! Quack!_

_Phil Lester_

 

For once in my life, 9 AM doesn’t seem like a bad start time, since I’ll probably be awake before the sun comes up due to the jetlag I’m already starting to feel. More importantly, who the fuck signs a professional email like that with an animal noise?

I double click the sender’s email address, which opens his student directory listing. The photo there is of a pale guy with jet-black hair that’s cut into a fringe not unlike my own. He looks back at me with striking light blue eyes and a coy smile.

He’s kind of hot, actually.

But I try to push that thought from my mind. I’m still not exactly sure what a PMAC is, but he seems to be some sort of authority figure, so it would be inappropriate for me to be attracted to him.

That’s probably another reason that Haley and I didn’t work out... The whole me being attracted to guys thing. Towards the start of our relationship, I had told her about how I’d sucked a guy’s dick once, and enjoyed it too. She had said that she was fine with me being bisexual – her label, not mine – but I think it bothered her in some way.

Before I can delve too deeply into thoughts of the past, I hear the lock turn and the door open behind me.

“Oh hey, you made it!” I turn to look at my presumable roommate. He’s about Tom’s height, but has brown hair and dark blue eyes. He’s wearing a tank top and a backwards baseball cap. “Sorry I’ve been MIA, Mom wanted to go to the mall,” he tells me, placing his Nike Outlet bag on his desk. “I’m Nate by the way, I’m from Bettendorf,” he says. I’ve never heard of that town, and he’s not offering any further information.

“I’m Dan, I’m from England.”

“No way! Chicks must dig your accent, huh?”

I tell him that I wouldn’t know, seeing as I’ve only been here for a few hours.

“Do you want to go grab some food before the floor meeting?” he asks me.

“Sure,” I say, because maybe he’s not a total asshole. If I have to live with the guy, I should at least give him the benefit of the doubt. Well, I should try.


	2. Some Form of Torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing!
> 
> You can reblog this chapter on tumblr [here](http://wallflowerchronicles.tumblr.com/post/149618785459/the-abstract-notion-of-home-chapter-2).

It turns out that Welcome Weekend is code for ‘let’s spend two and a half days lecturing you on why sexual assault and underage drinking are bad and also try to force you to make friends with your FYS at the same time’.  

The highlights of Thursday include a ridiculously long, droning speech from the university president and a ridiculous game of tug of war versus FYS 11. We then also have to listen to the Dean of Students tell us that the university is making an effort to use the term ‘first year student’ instead of ‘freshman’ and encouraged us all to do the same. Because apparently older students calling us freshmen in a derogatory way is the most important social issue on this campus. Everyone else seems to agree that this is bullshit, which is mildly refreshing. Everyone except Phil, our PMAC. But that’s not surprising; it’s his job to shove university-sanctioned bullshit down our throats.

Phil’s different than I imagined him. His hair is shorter than it was in the picture that I saw of him the other day,  barely covering his ears. He’s also a bit more broad-shouldered and generally more mature, which makes sense, seeing as that photo I saw was probably taken when he was a freshman.

He’s also a huge dork. First thing on Thursday morning, he has us all go around the circle and introduce ourselves. He asks that we give our name, where we’re from, our major, and our best impression of our favorite animal. He tells us that he’s a senior video production major from St. Petersburg, Florida, and then punctuates the sentence with a loud lion roar. He’s so weird. He’s still hot, though.

On Friday, we’re subjected to more speeches, as well as lunch with our FYS professor, Dr. Anderson. She’s probably in her late thirties, if I had to guess. She seems kind of cool, but she also made it clear that she takes her work very seriously and that she doesn’t really have time to mentor us. That’s Phil’s job. She advises us to go ahead and start reading Richard II if we find the time, and sends us on our less-than-merry way.

The afternoon consists of more horribly forced FYS bonding. One activity involves us having to retrieve a ball from the top of a tall, smooth-faced wall using only our bodies as climbing tools. I’m the tallest member of the group, and am immediately pegged as jungle-gym prime. A few of the girls decide that it would be a great idea for Aubrey, a tiny redhead from the Chicago suburbs, to climb onto my shoulders. This fails spectacularly, because I nearly drop her twice, and our combined height still isn’t tall enough to reach. Alexis, a tall blonde girl who seems to know what she’s doing, lobbies for a human pyramid approach, which eventually works.

Alexis is a pre-pharmacy major, which means that she’s probably smarter than most of us will ever be, and she knows it too. She’s from somewhere in Illinois, I think. But not Chicago. I learnt over the last few days that Illinois is just to the east of Iowa, and that it can roughly be divided into two categories: Chicago and Not Chicago. I’ve also met several people that are from the Iowa/Illinois border, like my roommate Nate. This is the location of the Quad Cities, though there are apparently more than four. And they’re not to be confused with the Twin Cities, which are to the north in Minnesota. It’s all very confusing. I don’t know why I bother trying to care.

Saturday is only a half-day of torture, but it starts off in much the same way as the last two. We meet up with Phil on Henderson Commons, but once we’re all accounted for, we walk to another grassy area to the south of Oelwein and sit in a large circle. He tells us that this is anonymous question time; it’s our opportunity to address any burning concerns before Welcome Weekend officially ends. He passes around a stack of notecards and a handful of pens. No one seems excited about the prospect of spending the next hour or so outside. It’s only 9:00 AM, but it’s already exceedingly hot. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky, and I feel like I’ve been wrapped in tin foil and shoved into a toaster oven. 

“Why do we have to do this outside?” whines Laura, a short, curly-haired girl who’s been rather bitchy all weekend.

“Yeah, it’s too hot to function,” concurs another girl whose name I can’t remember.

Phil doesn’t seem bothered by the heat. He bites his lower lip and considers the brewing mutiny. “I guess we can try to get into GK,” he concedes.

We head for the building to the west of us, which is Grinnell-Kiron Hall, GK for short. The two fused buildings house most of the sophomore class, Phil explains. He also mentions that he used to live here two years ago. Phil rings the doorbell, because his RA/PMAC status apparently only grants him an all-access pass to the freshman dorms. Phil must have connections here, though, because the on-duty RA greets him warmly and invites us to invade his lobby.

The air conditioning is bliss. We sprawl out on three different couches, with some people opting to sit on the floor instead. Phil starts collecting cards, and I realize that I haven’t thought of anything to write. I consider asking what was with the animal noises, but I decided against it and end up handing back the card blank.

Why anyone thought that this would he helpful, I don’t know. We’ve already spent two days with Phil. How many more questions could my classmates possibly have?

A lot, apparently.

Phil sits cross-legged on the floor and looks at the first notecard. “I’ve heard that Dr. Anderson is a hard grader and that her class is impossible to get an A in. Is that true?” Phil reads out. “No, that’s not true,” he says outright. “Her classes tend to be challenging, yes, but they’re not impossible. I took two of Dr. Anderson’s classes when I was a first year, back when I was an English Lit major. I got a B both times, and had to work pretty hard for it. But I know people that got A’s. They were both really good classes. I learned a lot, and it was well worth the effort.”

He ends the story there and moves on to the next question. “Is it common for people to change their major after the first semester? Um, yeah. Like I said, I started off as an English Lit major, and I switched to video production after my first two semesters. A lot of people change their major at least once, and sometimes more than once. I think it’s important to be honest with yourself if something isn’t working, and just be open to new ideas.”

I wonder what it says about me that I backed out of my law course before even starting it. Would Phil think that made me wise, or just lazy and scared? Does my patchwork course schedule for this semester count as keeping myself open to new things?

He moves on to the next question. “Where’s a good place to take a girl on a date around here?” Phil pauses to think for a moment. “There’s an ice cream place just up the road called Deena’s that’s pretty cool. They make old-fashioned malts. It’s a good place to take a girl, or a guy for that matter. They’re only open from April to mid September, though, so if you want to go there, you better go soon.”

Nick, the local kid, seconds the recommendation.

“Here's a good one: what does it mean when someone gets sexiled?” A murmur spreads through the group, as if the topic is controversial. I’ve never actually heard the term ‘sexiled’, so maybe it’s an American thing. But I’ve got a pretty good guess what it means. “Okay so, sexiling is when your roommate brings someone home with them, and you’re forced to find someplace else to hang out or maybe even sleep for the night,” Phil explains in a very PG fashion. “It can be a really awkward and just plain mean thing to do to someone if they’re not expecting it, so if you think this might be an issue, I suggest having an open and honest conversation with your roommate sooner rather than later. And maybe find a friend that has a futon you can crash on if needed. If you get truly desperate, you can come sleep on my floor. I live in Harlan, room 335.” 

I hope to god I’m never that desperate, but I’ll try to keep that information tucked away somewhere in the back of my mind. I’ve yet to determine exactly how much of an asshole my roommate is, but I wouldn’t put it past him to tell me to buzz off for the night so that he can bang some sorority girl. He’s told me that he intends to rush a fraternity, and that some of them have quotas for that sort of thing.

Phil continues with the questions, reading, “Why is the poster so glittery?” There are a few noticeable giggles from some of the girls. Phil’s been carrying this loud blue poster all weekend that has FYS 19 written on it, outlined in green glitter paint. So we’ve been leaving a trail of glitter behind us everywhere we go. All of the PMACs have one so that we can easily find our groups, but most are nowhere near as obnoxious as Phil’s. The stupid thing has been of almost no use to us, except maybe to locate Phil first thing on Thursday morning. No, like me, he’s well over six feet tall, so he’s easy to spot in a crowd.

“Okay, I admit that the glitter turned out to be a bit messier than I’d first anticipated, so I apologize if you’re still finding glitter in you pockets six weeks from now. But as for why our beloved poster was so glittery to being with, you’ll have to ask my girlfriend Caroline. The glitter paint was her doing, so we can all blame her.”

So Phil has a girlfriend. A girlfriend that he does arts and crafts with. So it’s probably pretty serious. I knew that Phil was probably straight, but the confirmation of it still stings a bit. Phil continues answering questions, even after he runs out of cards. But I’ve stopped paying attention. Eventually we have to leave the air-conditioned oasis and walk to the arena across campus one last time.

The last speaker that we have to endure as the culmination of our weekend of pain is the Director of Residents Life.  So she’s like, Phil’s boss’s boss’s boss, or something. She tells us to try to get involved on campus ; that joining clubs or intramural sports teams will help us make the most of our college experience. She closes by telling us that this is the last time that we will all be in the same room together until our graduation day. I know that that’s supposed to be symbolic and meaningful or whatever, but it’s actually a load of crap. I won’t be there when these people graduate from this school. A lot of these people won’t be there either. Four years is a long time. Shit happens.

I glance around at my classmates and try to determine if they’re actually buying any of this. Everybody looks pretty bored, but they stare forward and politely feign attentiveness. I look over at Phil – or rather, the back of his head – and wonder what he thinks of this charade. He’s part of the charade, but he seems too self-aware to be complicit in it. Suddenly, he looks back at me, as though he could feel my eyes on him.

I look away swiftly, and I try not to blush.

The logical thing would be for me to put the idea of Phil in a box and label it ‘off limits’. He’s older, he’s an authority figure, and he’s taken. It would be easier to accept defeat before I’ve even begun.

But when have I ever done anything logical?


	3. Out of the Cave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing! And to [ramblingsofapharmacist](http://ramblingsofapharmacist.tumblr.com/) for sharing your impressing DVD collection, which was mostly just fun, but did help with a bit of research for this chapter as well.

Considering that my class schedule is really just a cluster fuck of whatever intro-level courses still had open seats, it could be so much worse. At least that’s what I try to tell myself. The worst part is probably my Intro to Psychology course that meets every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 9:00 AM with a two-hour lab on Thursdays at 10:00 AM. I’m still a bit jetlagged at the beginning of the week, which works in my favor where early classes are concerned. But by Friday, I find myself groaning at my 8:00 AM alarm.

I have two other classes on Mondays and Wednesdays: Mass Media in a Global Society at 11:00 AM and American History from 1492-1877 at 2:00 PM. Sticking the British kid in an American History class was probably some administrative assistant’s idea of a joke, but I’m not laughing. I don’t even know what happened in 1877 that caused them to divide the two-semester course at that date. Or maybe they just picked a number so as to easily spot outsiders like me. Fuck if I know.

FYS meets on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 12:30, and then I also have Gender Studies on Tuesdays from 5:00 to 7:50 PM. That class scares me, because I feel like if I ever say anything in discussion, I’ll inevitably offend someone and/or look like a buffoon. The class is dismissed at 6:45 on the first day, and I have a feeling that this merciful trend will continue throughout the semester. So it could be worse. With one week down, that’s my overall impression of the whole circus that is my life right now. It could be worse.

After the first week, it seems that American History is going to be my most difficult class, just because I have no background knowledge on the subject whatsoever. FYS is probably going to require the most work, though. We’re reading the War of the Roses cycle in historical order, and have been assigned to read Richard II by Tuesday. We get a three-day weekend to accomplish this task, as Monday is Labor Day.

I’ve asked several people to explain, but I’m still not sure what Labor Day is or why it’s a government holiday here. Most cited that Labor Day signifies the official end of summer and is a day to have a barbeque with your family. But whatever, I’ll take a three-day weekend.

My roommate Nate doesn’t have any classes on Fridays, so he leaves after FYS on Thursday to head home for the long weekend. One of his parents has to drive here to come get him and bring him back on Monday because they didn’t let him bring his car to campus. He told me that he hopes to annoy them with requests to come home as frequently as possible until they let him bring the BMW that he got for his 16 th birthday with him. It will probably work.

I spend Saturday basking in the solitude of roommate-less-ness. Sunday starts off much the same, until I think I hear what might be a knock on my door over the sound of the music I’m listening to through my headphones. But that seems highly unlikely. Most of my classmates have gone home for the weekend, and anyone who knocks on my door is probably looking for Nate, not me.

But the knocking continues. “Dan, I know you’re in there,” a female voice calls out. “I heard you sneeze like half an hour ago.”

Now that’s just fucking creepy. I consider ignoring her and hope that she’ll go away.

“You can’t hide in your cave  _ all  _ weekend,” she persists. I recognize her voice this time. It’s Aubrey, my next-door neighbor. She doesn’t strike me as the creeper type, and she’s made an effort to speak to me several times over the last week or so. I decide to open the door.

“Can I help you?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Actually, I’m here to help you,” Aubrey retorts. I notice that Tom is standing in the hallway behind her, leaning against the door to his room. “Have you read Richard II yet?”

“Nope,” I answer honestly.

“Kayla has the Hollow Crown series on DVD, and she said that we could come watch it with her.” 

I actually read the play a few years ago, but was planning to read it again it this weekend. But a film refresher should be just as good, right?

So that’s how I end up in Kayla’s room down the hall along with Aubrey, Tom, Alexis, and a girl named Genevieve whom I don't know much about.

Kayla sits at her desk and flips through her DVD organizer, looking for the Hollow Crown miniseries disks. I notice that she has quite a large movie collection.

“So did you buy these just for this class?” Tom asks.

“Oh god no, I bought them years ago because Tom Hiddleston is in them,” Kayla admits. She fights with the blu-ray player for a moment, trying to will it to open the disk tray. “Come on, stupid thing,” she mutters under her breath.

“So, is it safe to assume that this Loki poster hiding back here is yours?” He pulls out the corner of the poster that’s been hidden between Kayla’s desk and the futon.

“Yeah… I’m kinda mad at him right now, so I haven’t hung it up yet. But I knew that I would regret not bringing it to college with me, so it’s living in the slot of shame for now.”

Tom and I exchange a confused look, but Aubrey gives a sympathetic nod. “He’s dating Taylor Swift,” Aubrey clarifies. I’m left wondering if the problem is whom he is dating, or simply the fact that he is publically dating at all.

Kayla starts the film, and we all watch quietly for the first few minutes. This is sort of homework, after all.

“Okay, am I crazy or is that Q?” Aubrey asks in reference to the actor playing Richard II. He certainly looks like the Q from the most recent Bond films.

“I think so,” I say.

“Yeah, it is,” Kayla confirms.

“He looks creepy with long hair,” Alexis says.

“His hair is the least of his problems in this story,” I mention, not wanting to give too much away.

We watch as Richard makes countless bad decisions that turn the people against him, and Bolingbroke seizes the opportunity to take power.

“Poor Q,” Aubrey says when Richard meets his eventual demise. 

“Do you think that the quiz is going to be hard?” Alexis asks as the credits roll. Professor Anderson had told us on Thursday that there would be a quiz each day that we are supposed to have finished reading a new play.

“Probably,” Aubrey says. “My orientation leader told me not to take this FYS because it’s so hard, but I really like Shakespeare, so I decided to go for it. But Phil said she’s not really that bad, didn’t he? So who knows.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you pre pharmacy? Don’t you have bigger problems than FYS?”

“Yeah, but I’m good at Science and Math. English is hard for me,” Alexis whines.

“Well, you still have all day tomorrow to worry about it,” Genevieve says, speaking up for the first time all afternoon. “We should go do something fun tonight, maybe go downtown,” she suggests.

“I don’t have a fake ID, so–” Alexis starts.

“No, I don’t mean go to the bars, just to check out the area, you know?”

“Okay,” Tom says skeptically.

“What I mean is – well, do any of you play Pokémon Go?” Genevieve twirls a lock of her brown hair around her finger nervously. 

Tom, Aubrey, and I all nod. Alexis shakes her head, apologetically holding out her slider phone that looks like it came straight out of 2011.

“I saw Phil playing it last weekend. I bet he knows some good spots to hit up,” Tom suggests.

Before I could even possibly object, we’re walking down to the Carpenter lobby to meet up with Phil. We realize that we won’t all fit in one car, but thankfully, Alexis has a car here as well. The group splits in half; Genevieve and I are assigned to Phil’s car. 

“This is Shadowfax,” Phil tells us as we approach a white Jeep Liberty with grey trim.

Genevieve giggles. “I see the resemblance,” she says. “I can appreciate a good Lord of the Rings reference.” 

So he’s definitely a nerd.

Phil starts the car, and Folie à Deux starts playing midway through track 4.

Good taste in music, then, as well.

Phil drives impatiently, cornering hard and jerking the car when he shifts gears. I wonder if he always drives like this, or if he’s just in a particular hurry today. 

Des Moines’ downtown area is small compared to what I’m familiar with, but it’s larger than what I was expecting. Phil hasn’t told us exactly where we’re going, just that there is indeed a good stop for Pokémon hunting somewhere nearby. We park, and walk about 10 blocks through fairly tall buildings before coming to an open area swarming with people.

“Welcome to Pokémon Land,” Phil announces.

We’re at some sort of modern sculpture park that covers two city blocks. There are about a dozen pokéstops here, and all of them have lures on them.

We walk a lap around the park, catching one pokémon after another. Phil explains the game to Alexis, and lets her catch a rattata on his phone.

“This is amazing,” Tom says.

“I’ve heard that Millennium Park in Chicago is like this, but I haven’t been downtown since the game came out,” Aubrey comments.

The group continues on, hoping to work on hatching their eggs. I opt to sit down on the grassy hill in the middle of the park, perfectly triangulated between three lures. I’ll probably catch just as many sitting here as they will while walking around.

A constellation of cellphone screens decorates the landscape.

I wonder if the art lovers in this city hate this game for ruining their sculpture park. Like, I should actually look at some of the art instead of looking at my phone the whole time. That’s why it’s here. I know this, but I still can’t be bothered. I am part of the problem.

If I think about it too much, I’ll get stuck in a swirling vortex of my own hypocrisy.

Phil walks over and sits down next to me, a shepherd checking on his lone wayward sheep.

“You’ve picked a good spot,” he says.

I shrug.

“How did your first week go?”

“Fine,” I answer curtly.

“So what’s your story? Why did you pick Mallard?”

It’s a pretty pedestrian question to ask a freshman, and it’s one that I’ve been asked many times over the last week. But the implication that I chose this place still makes me bitter. I tell him the story anyway. I tell him that I’ve come here to try and figure out what I’m doing with my life. He nods understandingly.

“What’s your favorite class so far?” he asks.

“Probably my media class.” We spent an hour on Thursday talking about the decline of Facebook and the rise of Twitter. It was actually interesting.

“MMGS with Vance?”

Another damn acronym. I nod.

“That’s a good class. Dr. Vance is my advisor. I took that class when I was a first year. She convinced me to change my major.”

I wonder if Candice Vance will impart some sort of life-changing influence on me as well.

“Ooo, there’s a Wartortle nearby,” Phil says.

The word spreads rapidly, and a sea of people move en mass to the northwest corner of the park, crossing the street in waves.

“Must be over there,” I observe. I already have a Wartortle, so dealing with the crowd isn’t worth it to me. I look over at Phil’s phone. The pokémon is greyed out on his nearby list. He doesn’t have one. He should be chasing after it like everyone else. For some reason, he remains by my side. I want to ask him why, but I can’t find the words.

After the chaos subsides, the rest of our group comes to find us.

“Is anyone else hungry? I’m starving,” says Tom.

“I know a really good place back near where we parked,” Phil tells us. “They put Chinese food on pizza. It’s amazing.”

Chinese pizza? This place keeps getting weirder and weirder. 


	4. Hermits & Airwaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beated by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) as always. Thank you!

Tom flops down into the seat next to me at 8:58 on Friday morning. We're near the back of the largest lecture hall in Ogdon, the biology and psychology building.

“Cutting it close,” I observe, though I have absolutely no room to talk. I walked into this lecture late on Wednesday. I also woke up about 20 minutes ago. But this is Psychology 101, and he’s a psychology major. He’s supposed to take this more seriously that I am.

“Don’t even,” Tom says. He’s clutching his venti Starbucks-something-or-other, which seems to be a daily habit.

“Did you get that on campus, or did you walk to an actual Starbucks?” I ask while trying to coax my laptop into reconnecting to the Mallard wifi network. It’s a daily struggle.

Tom scoffs. “Actual Starbucks. None of that ‘We Proudly Brew’ bullshit for me.” I haven’t gone to either of the on-campus cafes yet, but I’ve heard that the coffee there is kind of crap. They supposedly have good smoothies, though.

The nearest Starbucks is just across the street from the west end of campus, so it’s not like it’s that far to go. But Tom is clearly committed to the prestige of his caffeine.

“Jake keeps giving me shit for drinking hot coffee when it’s so hot outside, but I mean, it was kind of chilly this morning.” He looks at me for affirmation, and I nod even though I wouldn’t call this weather chilly at all. “Just because he’s from Practically Canada doesn’t mean that I can’t drink coffee whenever I damn well please.”

Tom’s roommate Jake is from somewhere in Northern Minnesota. His accent sounds Canadian to me. Despite their temperature squabbles, they seem to get along fairly well.

A hush falls over the auditorium. The lecturer has finally gotten his PowerPoint presentation set up and is ready to begin class.

I slump back in my seat, which is a mistake if I’m going to try staying awake for the next 50 minutes, but I don’t care. Tom will save me from embarrassing myself too severely if I do happen to fall asleep.

After 36 boring slides on the topic of “sensation and perception”, we’re set free for the weekend.

“Jake and I are planning to go out tonight,” Tom tells me as we’re walking back to Carpenter. “Wanna come?”

“Maybe,” I say. It’s not a bad idea; I could do with a drink. I haven’t had one since I got here.

I only just attained the right to legally drink back home and then I come here, where I'm once again underage. It’s so unfair. But being underage never stopped me before, and it doesn't seem to stop anyone here either. There’s plenty of alcohol to be found around the outskirts of campus, you just have to jump through a few hoops.

“The fraternities and sororities have rush next week, so they’re keeping a low profile this weekend.” The houses on Greek street will be filled with freshmen most evenings next week, hoping to make the cut and earn their letters. It seems to be a pretty big deal around here. “But I’ve heard there’s gonna be a party at the soccer house tonight.”

The upperclassmen on the men’s soccer team all live in a giant house that used to belong to a Greek fraternity. And I’ve heard that their parties live up to that legacy.

“What’s the catch?” There’s always a catch.

“Every guy has to bring at least two girls to get in,” Tom admits. That certainly does complicate things. “I know Aubrey will come, which means that I can probably also convince Gen and Carrie. But Jess and those girls from that end of the hall are already going with other people. So will you come?”

I’m confused. “How is adding another guy to the equation going to help your predicament?” Unless he’s implying that I should dress in drag or something.

“If I tell them that you’re going to be there, Sarah and Grace will definitely come. And maybe Laura. And if Laura comes, there’s a good chance that Alexis will too,” he explains. I’m glad that someone has the girls in our FYS figured out, because I certainly don’t. He’s probably not wrong about Sarah and Grace, though. They seemed infatuated with me from day one. Well, with my sexy accent, that is. It’s ridiculous, really, what passes for exotic around here. “So whatddya say?” Tom asks me.

“You can tell them that I’ll be there.” He can tell them that, but it doesn’t mean that I’ll actually go. I’d like to, but I also don’t want to feel responsible for making sure that a bunch of drunk girls - that I don’t even know that well - get home safely.

“Thanks, man. I’ll get it all worked out,” Tom says. I love that he already knows not to expect me to put any actual effort into making this happen. “Are you going to the activities fair this afternoon?” he asks as we enter the building.

Oh yeah, that thing. “Yeah, I probably should.” I need to at least try to find something to do with my free time. All of the Netflix-watching I’ve been doing lately has been great, but it’s going to get old after a while.

Tom knocks on my door later that day, accompanied by an entourage of girls from our FYS. I’m beginning to realize that they’re never going to let me live like a hermit in my cave. I guess that’s the downside of making friends.

The one thing I hate more than crowded rooms are crowded rooms full of people that are all trying to start a conversation with me. The activities fair has turned the conference space on the second floor of Oelwein into the latter sort of room. Every club and student organization on campus has a booth here to try and recruit new members.

It’s the sort of social situation that I would normally avoid at all costs. But here I am, wading through a sea of smiling faces and promotional pamphlets.

I don’t really know what I’m looking for, but here I am. Looking.

I’m not interested in the Greek fraternities, the chemistry club, or the weightlifting club. God, that’s laughable. There are professional organizations for business students, psychology students, and pharmacy students. None of those apply to me. There’s the nondenominational Christian group, the Democratic Ducks, and the Young Mallard Republicans. More places where I don’t belong.

Tom, Aubrey, and Alexis have all stopped to talk to different groups, leaving me to wander on my own. I spot a sign for the International Student’s Organization. That’s a box I technically fit into. But it doesn’t feel quite right.

And then I see Phil at the end of the aisle, and I gravitate toward him like a moth to a flame.

“Oh hey, you made it!” Phil says in greeting. He wasn’t sure I’d be here. I wasn’t sure either.

“Yeah,” I say with forced enthusiasm.

“Seen anything interesting?”

“Um, you know –”

Out of nowhere, incredibly loud hip hop music starts playing over the sound system. “Oh god, not again,” Phil says, tugging on my arm and pulling me behind one of the tables on the side of the aisle. People scattered through the aisles remove their hooded sweatshirts to reveal bright green and white Mallard Dance Club t-shirts.  They start dancing in unison. Phil squats down and hides behind the table. I panic and follow suit without really understanding what is happening. The internet has always told me that High School Musical is an unrealistic portrayal of an American school, but now I’m not so sure. 

“Did this happen last year or something?” I ask, because clearly Phil knows what all of this means.

“No, this happened like forty-five minutes ago!”

I agree that it’s strange to have two flash mobs in the span of an hour, but I’m not really sure why it means that we need to hide under a table.

Suddenly, the dancers start grabbing people near them and dancing around them, making them part of the spectacle. “Oh god,” I say, ducking my head out of view.

“DANCE CLUB!” the participants shout with an obnoxious amount of enthusiasm. They clap and cheer, then scatter into the crowd. In the distance, I see a pair of Mallard security officers running up the stairs, but the disturbance has already ended.

“Whose booth are we hiding in, by the way?” I ask as the music fades away.

“Oh, this is the broadcast club,” Phil explains as we stand back up. “We're not nearly that exuberant, but we try to be mildly entertaining.”

“Broadcast club?” I ask, wondering what that means exactly.

“We do student-run radio and TV programs in the evenings and on weekends. The stations are used for class projects and stuff during normal weekday hours, and there used to just be dead air otherwise. This club started after some students convinced the administration to let them run the show in the off hours.”

They let students run their own shows? That’s… really cool, actually.

“And you do TV, right?” He is a video production major, after all.

“Actually, I do production for one of the radio shows.”

Just when I think I have him figured out, he becomes even more of a mystery.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s kind of a long story, but I got into video production because of Youtube, not TV. The radio thing was something that I started last year. I was working on an idea for my senior thesis that didn’t really pan out. But it’s been really fun, so I’ve stuck with it.”

“That’s cool. When is your show?” I have so many more questions about what he’s just told me, but I have a feeling that he’s being vague for a reason.

“Sunday evenings, 8 to 10,” he says. Over his shoulder, I notice a short brown-haired girl quickly walking toward us, toward Phil. The Greek letters of her sorority are stitched across her chest.

“Hey babe,” she says, tapping him on the arm to get his attention.

“Hey Caroline,” he says. He introduces us to one another, but I already knew who she was before she even said hello. “How did it go?” he asks her.

“Good. Lots of girls seemed interested. Hopefully they all show up on Monday. How did things go here?”

“Not so great. Not a lot of interest, especially not for radio,” he tells her.

“That’s too bad. But you’re going to talk Dan into helping out, right?” The question is directed at Phil, but she turns her emerald green eyes to me for an answer.

“I’m not really sure if –” I start.

“Oh, but you’d be a great DJ with a voice like yours.” An accent like mine, she means. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “And Phil says that you’re really funny.”

He does? I don’t recall saying anything particularly funny in front of Phil, let alone anything worth telling his girlfriend about. There is a beat of silence. Phil looks as uncomfortable as I feel.

“Anyways, I’m off to yoga class, just wanted to stop by and say hi. You’re still coming for dinner tonight, right Phil?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then,” he affirms.

She smiles and turns to leave. They spare me the cruelty of having to watch a goodbye kiss, which I’m thankful for.

“She’s right; you do have a voice for radio,” he says.

“And a face for radio, too?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

He laughs. Apparently he does think I’m funny. “I didn’t say that. We are looking for new DJs and producers if you’re interested.”

I nod. I am interested. Interested in him more than the club, but that’s just a detail.

“You should come check out the show sometime. The studio is in the basement of Meriden. I could show you the ropes. It might be a good opportunity for you to try something new.”

I can’t deny that his offer has captured my attention. Saying yes would give me the opportunity to spend more time with Phil. We seem to have a lot in common. We could be good friends. I could continue to unravel the mystery. I could spend hours just staring at him, even though I obviously shouldn’t. But I like doing things that I’m not supposed to do.

If I were a better person, I would say no. I would distance myself from the temptation. If I choose to stay away from him, perhaps I could cling to the jagged edge of the precipice that is my sanity.

He smiles at me warmly. Or perhaps I’ve already fallen.

I don’t say no. 


	5. Mind Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing!

The hallway outside my door is bustling with people, which isn’t unusual for a Saturday night. Normally everyone would be getting ready to go out around this time. But today was the conclusion of Greek recruitment, so the girls are just now returning to campus in their high heels and cocktail dresses.

“I’m just so nervous!” says a female voice out in the hallway. The walls around here are thin enough that I can hear her words clearly. 

“Well, being nervous isn’t going to help, is it?” I recognize this second voice as Jess, a leggy blonde who is easily the most attractive girl in our FYS.

“You’d be nervous too if you weren’t a legacy,” retorts the other girl.

“What’s a legacy?” I turn and ask Nate. He’s been back for several hours, and didn’t have to dress up for his fraternity event. No, rushing a fraternity seems to be a much more casual process than rushing a sorority.

“It means that her mother or grandmother was in that sorority. So they’re way more likely to let her in. Not that Jess needs the help. Becca is right to be nervous, though,” he tells me.

“Why’s that?”

“She rushed the same sorority as Jess. It’s the most selective one. And Becca’s kinda chubby, you know?”

Another commotion in the hallway saves me from having to respond.

“Aubrey! Brianna! How did it go?” Becca asks.

“Good. How about you guys?” Aubrey returns.

“I don’t know, I’m really nervous,” Becca repeats.

“Shut up, Becky. It was fine. You’re gonna be fine,” Jess snaps at her.

Jess and Becca might take the cake as the most dysfunctional roommates on this floor. Especially since Jess keeps calling Becca ‘Becky’. I’m pretty sure she asked to be called Becca, but what do I know, really? 

I’m about to put my headphones on and try to tune out the drama when another familiar voice joins the crowd.

“Hey guys,” Phil says. “Am I sensing some pre-bid day jitters?”

Nate has already explained this part to me. Everyone that made it to the last night of recruitment will go to Oelwein tomorrow morning to pick up an envelope with their name written on it. If their preferred fraternity or sorority has chosen to accept them, the envelope will contain a “bid”, a formal invitation to join the organization. If not, the envelope will be empty.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be a long night,” Aubrey says.

“Well, we should do something fun, then. Take your minds off of it all. I’ll see who we can round up.”

Phil quickly walks down the hallway, knocking on each door as he goes.

I don’t even consider ignoring his call.

Suddenly, there are about a dozen of us in the hallway. “Who wants to go on a little adventure?” Phil asks us.

“Where are we going?” Someone asks.

“To the creepy chapel,” Phil tells us as if this is a normal thing to say.

“Creepy chapel?” I ask.

Phil tells us that there used to be a degree program for training pastors that was dismantled decades ago. The chapel that was left behind remains open for use during the day, though apparently no one ever goes there because it’s kind of a bizarre, unsettling place. “It’s the perfect place to play a game called Werewolf,” he concludes.  

I’ve never heard of this game, but judging by their excited chatter, some of my classmates clearly have.

“Alright, let’s go!”

About 15 of us end up leaving the hall together. I fall into step next to Tom.

“No parties to go to this weekend, I guess,” I observe.

“Nah, everyone’s otherwise occupied,” he says. “Next weekend should be good, though.”

I hope it’s better than our experience last Friday. The only alcohol available at the soccer house was a concoction called Jungle Juice. Apparently it’s customary here to simply dump whatever liquor and mixers are available into a large container. My first drink tasted of orange juice, vodka, rum, and maybe a hint of cherry soda. Not bad.  I spent the first part of the night chatting to a pretty brunette who definitely wanted to hook up with me, but I wasn’t feeling it. Her blue eyes reminded me too much of someone else. When I went back for a second drink, someone had dumped a container of milk into the mixture in the meantime.

A sour end to a sour evening.

The chapel turns out to be the tiny circular brick building right in front of Muscatine hall, the building where our FYS lectures are held. It looks fairly innocuous from the outside.

Phil pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and unlocks the door.

“How the hell do you have a key to this place?” I ask, astonished.

“I don’t. I borrowed my hall director’s keys,” he explains. He opens the door, and we follow him into a dark corridor that follows the outer perimeter of the space. Phil flips a light switch on the wall, with dimly illuminates the open space in the middle of the small building. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.

“Wow,” Laura says from somewhere to my right.

Before us are twelve high-backed wooden chairs placed around the perimeter of the circular space. They’re all pointed at a round stone platform in the center of the room.  A single spotlight points from the ceiling to light the surface of this altar. There are no windows and no religious iconography of any kind. I have haven’t a clue what sort of ceremony this place was designed to accommodate, and I probably don’t want to know. Phil was right; it’s fucking creepy.

Phil walks into the middle of the room and boldly hops up to sit in the middle of the stone platform. “Ok, raise your hand if you’re played werewolf or mafia before. They’re basically the same game.”

About half of the group indicates that they have.

“Alright, pick a seat if you know how to play. Everybody else, watch the first round. You’ll pick it up pretty quickly.” Phil pulls a set of notecards out of his pocket, shuffles them, and distributes one to each player. Clearly he came prepared. “We’ll play with one werewolf, one mystic, one doctor, and one hunter that can kill the werewolf if they are attacked. Everyone else will be a generic villager. Everyone had a look at your roles?” Phil asks. “Alright players, everyone go to sleep.”

They all close their eyes.

“It was a sleepy, peaceful night in the quiet village,” Phil says, setting the scene. “But little did the villagers know that danger now lived among them. Werewolf, wake up,” he commands.

Jake opens his eyes.

“Werewolf, who would you like to attack?” Phil asks.

Jake silently points across the circle to Laura.

“Alright, werewolf, go to sleep,” Phil commands. “The mysterious evil that has entered the village has tingled the senses of the local mystic. Mystic, wake up.”

Kayla opens her eyes.

“Mystic, you have sensed that something is wrong in your village. You may appeal to the almighty forces of the universe and ask them if one player of your choosing is guilty or innocent. Who do you choose?”

Kayla points to Tom, asking if he is the werewolf. Phil shakes his head no.

“Mystic, go to sleep.” Kayla closes her eyes. “Doctor, wake up,” Phil commands.

Laura opens her eyes.

“Doctor, you may pay a house call to one and only one of your neighbors. If they have been attacked in the night, you may be able to save them. Who do you choose to visit?”

Laura points to her roommate Alexis.

“Thank you doctor, you may go to sleep.” Phil pauses for a moment. “It’s morning now; villagers, please wake up. Everyone wakes up to greet the new day. Everyone except for Laura,” he announces dramatically. “Sadly, Laura was attacked in the night and is now dead.”

“Damn it, every time I play this game I get killed first,” Laura tells us, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair angrily.

“Laura’s ghost is very displeased with her recent murder. Laura’s ghost, what was your role in the village?”

“Doctor,” Laura says. There are several disappointed groans.

“Villagers, it is time to investigate what is happening in your town. Please discuss who you think the werewolf is. You must choose one player to kill without knowing for sure if they are guilty or innocent.”

The werewolf must take place in the discussion as if they are a normal villager. This game is a lot like poker, it turns out.

Jake is quick to accuse Alexis, which I think is probably a mistake. Brianna accuses Nate, claiming that she heard his chair creak during the time that the werewolf was awake. Phil takes a vote, and the group decided that they think Nate is the werewolf.

“Nope, fuck you guys, I was a villager,” Nate says, showing the group his card.

“Oh dear, things are not looking good for the safety and welfare of the village,” Phil says. “But it’s time once again for everyone to go to sleep.”

In the second round, Jake selects Tom as his victim. Kayla, the mystic, checks on the alliance of Jake. Phil gives her a thumbs-up to say that she has correctly identified the werewolf. So he did give himself away in the discussion, then.

“And the doctor is dead, so everyone wake up,” Phil instructs. “Last night, the werewolf attacked Tom.” Instead of being disappointed, Tom smiles at this news. “But Tom did not die because Tom is the hunter! Tom killed the werewolf Jake and saved the village from destruction.”

The villagers celebrate their victory. Jake tells us that he doesn’t like being the werewolf anyway, and volunteers to sit out the next round.

I’m assigned the role of hunter in the second game, but my role never comes into play. By sheer dumb luck, we manage to kill the werewolf after the first night.

There’s talk of mixing things up for the third game, maybe changing the roles. Apparently the rules of this game are flexible and open to interpretation.

“I want to play this round,” Phil tells us. “Anyone else want to narrate? Dan?” He looks right at me. He didn’t even wait for anyone else to volunteer. But no one objects to the suggestion, either.

“Ok,” I say a bit reluctantly. He hands me the cards, and I shuffle through them carefully, a plan forming in my mind.

Seven players sit in a semicircle in front of me: Aubrey, Tom, Phil, Jess, Gen, Nate, and Kayla. I deal the cards from the top of the deck, but pull the werewolf card I’ve stashed at the bottom and hand it to Phil. He clearly knows this game well. If anyone can win as the werewolf, it’s him.

“Residents of space station R2-D2,” I address them. They wanted to switch things up? Let’s switch things up. “You do not know it yet, but a threat has infiltrated your ranks. A space virus has turned one among you into a zombie space demon that is only infectious at night.”

Several players giggle at my opening remarks. I'm not sure if it’s because of my bizarre take on the game or my completely unnecessary Star Wars reference.

“Zombie space demon, wake up.”

Phil opens his eyes. I pretend to look surprised.

“Who would you like to infect?” I ask. He points to Aubrey. “Understood. Please return to your slumber. Aboard this space station is a scientist who collects and analyzes a blood sample from one other resident each night to determine if they are infected. Scientist, wake up,” I command, hoping that my new definition of the mystic was clear.

Gen opens her eyes.

“Scientist, who would you like to test?”

She points to Tom. I shake my head no.

“Scientist, go to sleep. Medic, please wake up.” Nate opens his eyes. “Who would you like to heal?” He points to himself. Can he do that? I have no idea, so I decide to roll with it.

I wake them all up, and tell them that Aubrey has been killed in the night. In the discussion, Phil sits back and let’s the others argue over nothing. His name isn’t even mentioned. The group decides to kill Tom. I tell them that Tom was a regular astronaut, and we move into night two.

Phil attacks Kayla. He seems to be picking off the smartest first, which is probably a good strategy. Gen inquires about Nate, and I let her know that he too is innocent. Nate again chooses to protect himself.

The next round of discussion lasts longer than any we’ve had so far. “NASA can’t help you now,” I tell them, trying to get things to move alone. Jess accuses Nate, and Gen defends him. Nate eventually attacks Jess. Gen sides with him since she knows he’s innocent. Phil becomes the swing vote, and they choose to eliminate Jess, the hunter.

As the third night begins, only Phil, Gen and Nate remain. I wake up the zombie space demon, and Phil winks at me, knowing that he as all but won. He attacks Gen. Nate heals himself. Because of his selfishness, Phil wins the game.

Gen seems frustrated by the result, but several other people clap at the end. “That was so much fun,” Aubrey says. Everyone seems to agree.

“You came up with a pretty interesting story,” Phil says to me as we’re preparing to head back to the dorms.

“And you played it out perfectly,” is my attempt at congratulating him.

“I knew you’d be good at it. So when are you coming to the radio show?” he asks me, as if the two things are somehow connected. I didn’t go last weekend, mostly because I didn’t want to seem overeager.

“Um, I’m not sure,” I say. Phil looks disappointed. I probably could go this weekend, but I need to study for FYS. I didn’t do so well on the Richard II quiz, so I need to actually read Henry IV part 1 before Tuesday. “This week or next week,” I tell him.

“You know, you’re never going to find new opportunities if you don’t try new things.”

I know that he’s right. Of course he is.

If I want to change my future, I have to put in some kind of effort. Maybe it’s time I start trying. 


	6. A Punch in the Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing!
> 
>  
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains mild violence

It’s hard to believe that I’ve already been here for a month. There’s a definite chill in the air in the mornings now; the summer heat is finally gone. 

Campus is buzzing in a way that I haven’t seen since Welcome Weekend. The posters on the hall bulletin board tell me that today is Homecoming. It’s Saturday morning, and there’s a whole carnival being set up on Henderson Commons to celebrate tonight’s football game. American football, of course.

I’ve agreed to go to the carnival with Tom, Aubrey, and Alexis because they’ve promised me that there will be good food there. I have a feeling that they’re going to try to get me to come to the game too. I don’t really care for football of any sort, but they’ll likely convince me somehow. I should probably just accept my fate.

When I meet up with the group in the afternoon, I’m surprised to see that Grace, Aubrey’s roommate, is with them. She’s a tall, plain girl from some small Iowa town, so she always goes home for the weekends. I guess Homecoming was a big enough reason for her to stay.

The tiny carnival is crawling with people. There are several booths selling food, inflatable games that look like they belong at a child’s birthday party, and gimmicks that require knocking over a certain number of tin cans with a tennis ball in order to win a stuffed animal to impress your girlfriend. 

“You have to try the deep-fried butter. It’s an essential Iowa experience,” Grace insists.

The concept sounds horrifically disgusting to me, but the others are eager to try the novelty item. We wait in line, and I’m eventually handed what looks like a fried dough ball on the end of a stick. When I bite into it, it’s warm and soft and buttery - of course.

“It tastes likes diabetes,” I conclude.

“More like coronary artery disease, but yeah,” says Kayla.

“They fry entire sticks of butter at the state fair,” Grace tells us. I don’t know how much butter a ‘stick’ is, but I’m pretty sure that it’s more than a human should reasonably consume in a single day.

“Look, they have cheese curds!” Grace exclaims.

“What?” Kayla snaps, like something has deeply offended her. She looks over to where Grace is pointing, and spots the stand giving out cheese curds. “That’s sacrilege.”

Clearly I’m out of the loop again. “What’s a cheese curd? Why is it sacrilege?”

“It’s the solid part of curdled milk,” Aubrey explains. “You know, curds and whey?”

“Why don’t you like them?” I ask Kayla. “Aren’t you from Wisconsin? Isn’t that like, the land of cheese?”

“That’s the problem. We’re not in Wisconsin. We’re in Iowa. You can’t get good cheese curds anywhere south of Kenosha. You just can’t.” 

Grace rolls her eyes.

“We take our dairy very seriously. It’s illegal to serve margarine in restaurants in Wisconsin because it would create a deficit in the butter market.”

“Because you’re ridiculous,” Aubrey declares. I have to agree.

“Does anyone actually enforce that law, though?” Tom asks.

“No,” Kayla admits. “But still.”

“Hey guys,” says a familiar voice. I turn to see Phil walking toward us, hand in hand with Caroline. With her other arm she’s carrying one of the stuffed animal prizes from the game booths. So they’re that sort of couple. What a fucking cliché.

“Aubrey! Hi,” Caroline says, dropping Phil’s hand to pull her into a hug. The Greek letters on Caroline’s t-shirt are the same ones that were plastered on Aubrey’s door last Sunday. They’re sorority sisters now.

“Hey, good to see you,” Aubrey responds. “I didn’t realize that you two were a couple.”

“Oh, yeah! Two years now. Our anniversary is on Monday,” she says, looking up at Phil adoringly. He smiles at her. It makes me sick.

Two years? That’s a long fucking time for people our age. Haley and I never quite made it to two years, so maybe that’s why it seems like some important milestone to me. Something I never achieved. For some reason, I had assumed that Phil and Caroline were a more recent thing, a summer fling maybe. But no. Two years. They’re serious. Fuck.

“Congratulations,” says Aubrey. Caroline thanks her.

“You guys are coming to the game, right?” Phil asks. I’m grateful for the change of subject.

“Of course,” Tom says.

Of course we are.

We walk another lap around the carnival, but decide that we’ve seen all there is to see, which isn’t much. Phil suggests that we head over to the stadium, because the student section will fill up early. We cross the street and show our student ID’s to get into the building. As we’re walking down the incline of bleachers, we spot Nate, Jake, and a few of the girls from our class and squeeze into the row with them. Caroline sees some of her friends a few rows down, so she and Phil go to sit with them.

“Beta Gamma’s having a party tonight after the game,” Nate tells me. That’s the name of his new fraternity, I think. “I can get you in if you want.” I wait for him to add a condition like ‘if you bring a bottle of vodka and/or three girls with you’, but he doesn’t elaborate.

“Cool. Can Tom come too?” I ask just to see how far I can push this.

“Sure,” Nate says, still no stipulations added. The benefits of knowing a member, I guess.

After the game starts, Nate tries to explain the rules to me so that I’ll have some idea of what’s going on, but I hardly pay attention to him. I cheer when the crowd cheers, and that’s about all that can be expected of me.

I stare at the happy couple sitting two rows in front of me. They’re an impenetrable wall built on a solid foundation separating me from something that I think might make me happy. And I hate them for it.

I want to crawl into a hole and disappear. Or get drunk. Maybe both.

The Beta Gamma house is already loud and filled with people when we arrive. Most of them clearly didn’t stick around to watch the end of the game. Which we won, of course. Not because our team is any good, but because schools tend to play someone they know they can beat for Homecoming. Or so Tom tells me.

There’s a very large guy guarding the door. He turns away all of the guys and half of the girls that are in line in front of us, but Nate says that we’re with him, and we’re allowed to walk right in.

There’s a girl walking by in a crop top and shorts carrying a tray of green Jell-O shots. I grab two of them and down them immediately. I taste lime and sugar with only a tiny hint of tequila. Excellent.

“Gee, thanks,” Tom says like he was expecting me to offer him one. I probably should have.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, nearly shouting so that he can hear me over the pounding music. I notice that Nate has already disappeared into the crowd. “Look, they have red ones over there,” I add, pointing to another tray on the other side of the room.

“Maybe we should get you some water first,” Tom says. I roll my eyes at him. “Or at least switch to beer. Pace yourself.” We wade through the sea of people into another room. He hands me a can, and I accept it. Compared to the shots, the beer tastes like watery bread and disappointment.

I sip my beer and follow Tom around as he mingles with the crowd, stopping to say hello to people that he knows. God, how does he know these many people when he’s only been here as long as I have? He makes an effort to be social, that’s how.

After maybe half an hour, we end up running into Aubrey. I’m not sure who she came with, or maybe the guy at the door let her in on her own. She’s pretty enough, and smart enough to act like she belongs. Tom seems eager to talk to her, and I know that this is a perfect opportunity to slip away. There’s definitely something going on between those two, though neither of them have actually mentioned it to me.

Across the room, I spot a rather cute guy in a leather jacket drinking from a bottle of Malibu. He’s staring right back at me in an almost predatory way. I know that look, so I walk over to him.

“Hi, I’m Dan,” I tell him.

“Adam,” he says.

“Are you sharing?” I ask, eyeing the rum in his hand. He offers it to me without question, and I gulp down a mouthful straight from the bottle. It’s almost empty, which is a shame.

“You look familiar,” he says to me. He’s right, I’ve definitely seen him somewhere before, but my slightly inebriated brain can’t quite place him. “You were at the soccer house two weeks ago.”

“That’s right, I was.” I’m glad one of us has a good memory.

“You were talking to some girl for a long time, but you didn’t leave with her.” A very good memory.

“She wasn’t my type,” I admit truthfully.

“Am I your type?” he asks, staring me down.

“Maybe,” I say, trying not to blush. Eye-fucking me from across the room was one thing, but that was pretty blatant. He takes the last swig of the Malibu, and sets the empty bottle down on a table soit becomes somebody else’s problem.

Maybe he’s the sort of distraction I need to take my mind off of a certain other pretty boy and his pretty long-term girlfriend.

“Come with me,” Adam says, tugging on my wrist and guiding me around the corner into a dark hallway.

He looks at me, but I can tell that he’s focusing on my lips, not my eyes. And he’s leaning into me, and I let him. His lips press against mine, firm and hot. I taste the alcohol on him. His tongue brushing against my lower lip, questioning.

Suddenly, I hear footsteps quickly approaching us, so he pulls away from me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I turn my head to look at the broad-shouldered, very muscular dude who’s yelling at us. At Adam, actually. He’s brought an equally large friend as backup. “Who let you in?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Adam replies with a cocky smile.

The other guy responds by shoving Adam against the wall, hard. I notice that he’s wearing Nate’s letters across his chest. This is his house.

“You think this is fucking funny?” the fraternity brother asks, definitely not amused. I watch as he raises his fist. It almost seems to happen in slow motion.

“Hey!” I shout, not stopping to think better of it.

He pauses, looks at me, and then the fist is headed in my direction. I don’t have time to brace myself before the forceful contact of skin against skin, bone against bone. I stumble backwards, my heart racing with panic. My left eye is pulsing with pain, my nose is bleeding.

“What the fuck, dude?!” yells the other guy, the backup. He steps between the punch thrower and me. It gives me the perfect opportunity to run.

I push through the crowd, aiming for the front door. Tom’s going to wonder where I’ve gone, of course, but I don’t care about that right now. I’m not going to risk that guy coming after me for a second go.

I run down the street and turn down the path that leads back to campus, the music from the party fading in the distance. I don’t stop running, don’t stop to look behind me until I’ve crossed the street that marks the western border of campus. I’m horribly unfit, but adrenalin and fear have carried me this far. No one has followed me.

I walk back toward my dorm, trying to catch my breath. I wipe the blood away from my nose with the back of my hand. I’m pretty sure that it’s not broken, which is good. My eye and my cheekbone hurt like hell though. That’s definitely going to leave a bruise.

Kissing that guy - at  _ that _ party of all places - is probably one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done. Trying to step in the middle of whatever was going on between those two might just have been  _ the _ dumbest. The guy that punched me is Nate’s fraternity brother. That guy saw me kiss another guy. Pretty soon, Nate is going to hear about that, and he’s going to tell everyone I know here.

There’s no way I’m going to that radio show tomorrow. 


	7. Truths and Possibilities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/), as always, for betaing.

When faced with inevitable conflict, my primary instinct is always to run from it.

I spend all of Sunday trying to avoid Nate, and everyone else for that matter. I wake up before he does and immediately leave the building. I find an empty study room on the third floor of Ogdon. The biology building is probably the last place that anyone would think to look for me, which is exactly why I chose it.

My face hurts like hell. The area around my left eye has turned this grotesque dark blue color, and it’s swollen. I try my best to ignore it.

I spend what’s left of the morning going over my notes from American History, trying to memorize names and dates that my classmates have probably had drilled into their heads since they were 8 years old. I consider going to Huxley for food, but I don’t want to risk running into anyone. Instead, I roam around the basement of Ogdon for a while until I find a vending machine. They’re not ideal sustenance, but the processed cheese crackers will do.

The next thing on my to do list is reading Henry V. I take my time reading this one; I even take notes and everything. Maybe hiding from my roommate will force me to do better on the next reading quiz. It feels good to be productive, even if I’m doing it for all the wrong reasons.

But I can only hide for so long. My stomach starts protesting around 5 PM, probably because I didn’t really eat lunch. I walk over to Huxley and order a burrito from the to-go area before making my way back to Carpenter.

Nate’s sat on his bed staring at the door like he’s been waiting for me. “I heard about what happened last night.”

“I’m sure you did.” I’m sure everyone else has too.

“I don’t mind that you’re gay, I just wish you would have told me,” he says.

“I’m not gay,” I counter.

“Right,” he says skeptically, like he knows better. I focus on putting my things away, not wanting to start an argument. “I haven’t told anyone in the FYS. Derick said that I shouldn’t.”

That surprises me. “Who’s Derick?” I ask.

“The guy that hit you?” He phrases it like a question, like I should have known that. But I’m only more confused. Why punch me for kissing a guy and then tell my roommate not to out me? It doesn’t add up.

“What?”

“He says he’s sorry, by the way. He was pissed at Adam, because he wasn’t supposed to be there. Must have snuck in through the back or something. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, you know? You were just the guy kissing his ex-boyfriend.”

Oh. It wasn’t about me kissing a guy. It was about me kissing the wrong guy. I was not expecting that.

“Anyway, like I said, I’m fine with it. It just makes me a little uncomfortable, you know?” He wants me to sympathize with his prejudice, like that will make it justifiable somehow.

“Don’t worry, you’re not my type,” I scoff at him, hoping that that will put an end to the conversation.

I am thankful that he’s decided to keep my secret to himself. That’s more than I expected of him. Everyone’s still going to see my black eye and want to know what happened. They’ll make a big deal of it whether I tell them the truth or not. And fuck, I don’t want the girls calling me ‘you poor thing’, and I don’t want Phil looking at me with sad eyes, pitying me. I especially don’t want that.

I’m able to avoid Phil until Tuesday night. I’m walking out of Meriden after my Gender Studies lecture when I spot him walking out of Clive. We’re both headed toward the same walkway that will lead us back to the freshmen dorms. Our paths will inevitably collide.

I consider backtracking and taking the long way around Huxley to avoid running into him. He’s definitely not going to be happy about me skipping his radio show yet again. When I glance back in his direction, it’s clear that he’s already seen me. He’s walking straight toward me now, a new spring in his step. I pull my hood up onto my head, hoping that its shadow will be enough to conceal the bruise around my eye. The sun has long set, so it just might work.

“Hey, Dan!” he calls to me.

“Hi,” I reply with zero enthusiasm in my voice.

“Night class?” he asks. I nod yes. “Same. Astronomy,” he specifies, motioning to the science building over his shoulder. Out paths collide at an intersection where I should turn west to get where I’m going. But he stops, wanting to chat, so I stop too. “I probably shouldn’t have left that second science credit until my senior year, but you know,” he trails off.

I nod again, but I don’t know. Not really. The graduation requirements at this university aren’t something I’ve bothered paying attention to.  

“So what’s it going to take to get you to come into the studio? I’m not above bribes, you know,” he tells me. His tone is playful; he doesn’t seem angry with me for standing him up yet again, though I know he must be disappointed. Hell, I’m disappointed. He stares at me, waiting for an answer. I hang my head, unsure what to say.

Maybe the light from the streetlamp catches my face from a new angle, or maybe Phil just looks at me properly for the first time.

“Oh my god, what happened to your face?” he asks, placing his fingers beneath my jaw and tilting my head toward the light. His touch is gentle, yet authoritative. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing; I’m fine,” I insist. He pulls his hand away, and a part of me wishes that his fingers had lingered just a bit longer.

“You don’t look fine. Who did this?” He seems personally offended on my behalf.

“Some guy punched me on Saturday. I deserved it.” I did, too. I did something stupid, stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal! What happened? Where were you?”

“Look, I really don’t want to talk about it. This is why I didn’t come on Sunday. I knew you’d react like this.” I turn and start walking again, but I know that he will follow me.

Phil sighs. “Was it someone in the FYS?”

“No,” I tell him. That seems to satisfy him to some extent, knowing that this isn’t going to turn into paperwork he has to deal with.

“Have you been taking anything for the pain? I have some paracetamol if you need any.” The word ‘paracetamol’ sounds so strange in his American accent. I thought that drug had a different name here, so why is Phil using the British term? How does he even know it?

“I’m fine, thanks.” I’m not some fucking charity case, thank you very much.

“Let me know if you change your mind. Or if you decide that you want to talk about it.” First he wants to be my drug dealer, and now he wants to be my shrink? God.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

We’ve reached the walkway to Harlan by this point, Phil’s stop. He pauses once more, silently telling me that the conversation isn’t over quite yet. “And if you’re not planning on coming to check out the show, that’s okay. You don’t need to keep making excuses.” His face is full of disappointment. It’s not a good look on him, and I don’t want to be the cause of it. No, I don’t want that at all.

I should go at least once. See what all of the fuss is about. I could do that for him.

“I’ll come this week,” I tell him. He seems to believe me, like maybe he can tell that I'm actually being serious this time.

“See you there,” he says with a smile, turning toward the front door of Harlan at last.

The radio studio turns out to be a single room tucked in the corner of the basement in Meriden. I had to walk through a hallway filled with TV production studios, equipment storage, and offices to find it. Radio is clearly the least loved child of the College of Journalism and Media Studies.

I arrive about five minutes before the start of the show. Phil opens the door when I knock. He looks happy to see me, but not surprised that I’m here.

The studio is just a small rectangular room with two L-shaped desks on one wall and a worn out couch on the other. The desks are covered with electronics from microphones to laptops to crazy looking switchboards with hundreds of buttons and sliders. There’s a guy with sandy, brown hair and hipster glasses sat at the farthest desk. He must be the host.

“This is Shane,” Phil tells me. “Shane, this is Dan.”

“Oh hey,” Shane says like he’s heard all about me. He quickly returns to whatever he’s working on.

“We go on air in just a few minutes,” Phil says. He sits back down at his desk, and I sit on the couch.

“So what’s on right now?” I ask.

“Nothing. The previous show ended at 4PM,” he says, pointing at the wall above my head. I turn to look at the whiteboard hung there, which lists all of the shows throughout the week. There are four shows on Saturdays, but only two on Sundays. “The weekend shows are run entirely by student volunteers, and we don’t have enough people to be on-air throughout the whole day. There’s more coverage during the week with class project shows and faculty helping out, but there’s still dead air at night.” He shrugs, complacent with this state of affairs.

When it comes time to start the show, they both put on a pair of headphones, and Phil gives Shane a five second countdown.

“What’s up, ya ducks?” Shane asks into the microphone. “My name’s Shane, and you’re listening to the Sunday night request show here on Mallard’s own 96.1 The Duck.” He then reads out the phone number that listeners can call to give their requests. “I look forward to hearing from you! In the meantime, here’s Cage the Elephant with  _ Trouble _ .”

The song plays through, but no one’s called in. To kill time, Shane asks Phil about his weekend, and they somehow segue into a prerecorded clip about upcoming events on campus. Someone finally calls after that, and Shane spends several minutes asking them where they’re from, what their major is, and what they’re up to on this fine Sunday evening. Killing more time, probably. She eventually requests to hear something by Walk The Moon, so they play  _ Shut Up and Dance _ .

Phil talks to me a bit while the song plays, asking me about my weekend and the mostly-faded bruise around my eye. Shane keeps his nose buried in his laptop. Their working relationship seems civil, but strained, like Shane doesn’t really want to be here. It makes me wonder how they ever ended up working on this show together in the first place.

“So what was it that you wanted to do with the show for your thesis project?” I ask Phil, remembering that he mentioned something about that at the activities fair.

“Oh, I had this idea to stream a live video feed from the studio on the station’s website. Most people listen online anyway,” he tells me. A visual radio show? That would certainly be different. “But that didn’t work out for various reasons.” I look over at Shane, figuring that he’s probably one of those various reasons. But he seems unfazed by the topic. 

A few songs later, I notice a face peeking in the small window in the door. Aubrey? What the hell is she doing here? I walk over and open the door.

“Hey, can I talk to you about something?” she asks.

“Um, now’s not really a good time –”

“Hi Phil! Can I come hang out for a bit?” she asks, spotting Phil over my shoulder.

“Sure,” he says invitingly, like this is totally normal.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask her once we’ve sat down.

“Oh, I asked Nate and he told me.” That bastard.

“Ten seconds,” Phil warns us, politely telling us to shut up.

“So what are you doing here?” I ask at the next opportunity.

“I wanted to ask you about Tom,” she says. I stare at her, unsure of what she’s trying to hint at. “Do you think he likes me?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, but just barely. I never signed up to be these two’s go-between, and I’m not about to now. “Maybe you should ask him that.”

“Yeah, probably, but like… I just want to know that I’m not totally crazy before I go and do something stupid. So am I totally crazy?”

“No, you’re not,” I tell her truthfully. I’ve seen the way he acts around her. I’ve had my suspicions. And I’m hoping that the reassurance will be enough to take matters into her own hands and leave me out of it. I look over at Phil and see that he’s smiling to himself.

“Okay,” she says, apparently having heard all that she needed to hear. I half expect Aubrey to leave, but she only crosses her legs and leans further back into the couch.

“I had no idea that you guys played actual music on this station.” Aubrey says after a few more songs. “I thought a college radio station would be like talk radio mostly. I bet half of the students at this school don’t even know that we have a radio station.” She’s probably right.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a hidden gem, I guess,” Phil comments.

“Who does your marketing? Are you on twitter? Can people tweet song requests or do they have to call?”

Phil tells her that the broadcast club does some marketing for the radio station, but that it’s very minimal. And no, the radio station doesn't have an official twitter account. Aubrey seems both appalled and determined to change this immediately.

“Aren’t you a magazine journalism major? Why the sudden interest in marketing?” I ask.

She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know; someone ought to do it. This show could be really good if people would just listen to it and participate a bit.”

She’s right; it has potential. I think back to Phil’s idea for a visual show. That would really be something unique. It would allow them to interact with the audience in a whole new way. Maybe that would be something worth marketing.

“So what are you doing here, by the way?” Aubrey asks me.

It’s a good question, really. “Um, I don’t know, just checking out the whole radio thing, I guess.”

“If I make some flyers promoting the show, will you help me hang them up around campus?” For some strange reason, she’s decided to take this marketing thing seriously. I nod, not wanting to tell her no, especially not in front of Phil. “Excellent. Are you free on Friday afternoon?”

I glance over at Phil before replying, and I see him staring at us with this shit-eating grin on his face like some evil genius who’s master plan is all coming together at last.  


	8. Paramagnetism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing!
> 
> And shout out to Mallard Squirrel, who is based on a true story.

“Do you think that Harry’s erratic behavior in Henry IV is meant to reflect the unstable political climate of the series?” Tom asks me.

I shrug. “I don’t know, probably.” He takes another sip of his venti latte, maybe hoping that the caffeine will provide further insight on the subject.

Our midterm papers for our FYS are due on Thursday, so we’re spending our Saturday in the Carpenter lobby trying to write them. But instead of being productive, I’ve probably spent the last five minutes or so watching two squirrels chase each other up and down the tree trunk on the other side of the window. The Mallard campus is home to many small animals including squirrels, pigeons, and the occasional rabbit, but I’ve yet to spot a single mallard duck. The hypocrisy is disappointing.

“Did you know that a squirrel won a seat in the student senate a few years back?” Tom asks, following my gaze.

“That can’t be real.”

“Absolutely. Mallard Squirrel won a senator at-large position as a write-in candidate.”

“That’s ridiculous. I mean, surely they would have had to re-hold the election or something, right?”

“I don’t know; you’d have to ask Phil. It happened during his freshman year, I think.”

I chalk it up to Iowan urban legend, and go back to working on my paragraph, analyzing the contrast between Prince Harry and Henry Percy. I’ve thought about comparing the Percys to a certain other family from the North in  _ Game of Thrones _ , but I doubt that Professor Anderson would appreciate the reference. She’d probably say that that’s more of a commentary on the modern series than it is on Shakespeare’s work, which is definitely true.

The squirrels have moved on to scampering about the carpet of fallen yellow leaves beneath the oak tree, the crunching sound distracting me once again. I’m not making much progress on my paper. I could do with a break.

“Do you want to go get some food or something? I’m not really making any progress here,” Tom says, reading my mind. I woke up this morning at 11:07, when I was supposed to meet Tom at 11:00. So I didn’t exactly have time for breakfast.

“Me neither,” I admit. “Hux North is open by now, right?” Huxley Hall, the dining facility, is divided into two different eating establishments. Huxley South is a traditional all-you-can eat cafeteria known for it’s mystery soups and its meat that may or may not give you food poisoning on any given day. Huxley North offers meals to go from different stations where you can build your own sandwich, burrito, salad, et cetera. You get less food, but it tastes better and it probably won’t leave you running to the toilet in a few hours. Probably.

“Yeah, they opened at 1:00,” Tom confirms.

We return our laptops and notes to our rooms and walk over to Huxley. We decide to eat our food outside, since it will probably only be warm enough for a few more weeks at most.

We’re almost ready to head back when my phone buzzes. I retrieve it from my pocket to find a message from Phil:

I’m going to go record some promos for the radio station. Want to help?

I’m not particularly eager to go back to staring at my unfinished paper just yet, so I tell him sure. I part ways with Tom, and head toward Meriden instead of Carpenter.

Phil is already in the studio when I arrive. He explains that he needs to record a few clips advertising special upcoming programs on the radio station, as well as a few announcements for events happening on campus. The broadcast DJs all rotate this task on a weekly basis, he tells me.

“Wouldn’t that make this Shane’s job?” I ask. Instead, somehow I’m sat in Shane’s chair.

“Technically. But he really doesn’t have time, so I take care of it when it’s our turn.”

I recall how Shane acted as if he didn’t want to be here last weekend, like the show was somehow beneath him. “What do you mean he doesn’t have time? What’s his deal, anyway?”

“He’s just got a lot on his plate. He works on two different radio shows, and he’s the student senator for the College of Journalism and Media Studies.”

Shane’s resume makes me think back to Tom’s squirrel story.

“Is it true that a squirrel once got elected to student senate?” I ask.

“Oh, Mallard Squirrel?” His whole face lights up at the memory. “Man, what a legend. Personally, I think they should have let him keep the position, at least in an honorary capacity, you know?”

“It was an actual, specific squirrel?”

“Yeah, he only had half a tail for some reason, so that’s how we could tell him apart from the others. I haven’t seen him since last fall; I wonder what happened to him.”

I’m sure he died, but I don’t want to burst Phil’s bubble.

“We should do a  _ Where Is He Now _ piece for the radio show. We could ask the audience to report any recent sightings,” Phil muses.

“Sure,” I say. I’m just relieved he hasn’t suggested that we personally traipse around campus looking for this squirrel with a mangled tail that’s probably long dead.

“Here are the promos that we need to record today,” he says, handing me a sheet of paper across the desk.

“Okay, what do you need me to do?”

“I want you to read them.” I’d foolishly assumed that he wanted my help with the equipment or something, not that I was actually going to be a part of the recordings. “Don’t worry, it's not live or anything, so if you mess up or we don’t like the way it sounds, we just do another take.” He puts on his headphones, and motions for me to do the same.

I glance down at the paper. There are about ten 1-2 sentence blurbs to record.

Phil hits a few buttons, then says, “Whenever you’re ready.”

I try to talk directly into the microphone like Phil and Shane did last week. “ _ Don’t miss this week’s live on-air performance by Mallard’s own acapella sensation, The Duck Tails, Thursday night at 7 right here on 96.1 The Duck _ ,” I read. “Acapella sensation? Really?”

“Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t write these,” Phil tells me. “Try that again.”

I read it twice more before Phil’s satisfied with my inflection.

It takes us almost an hour to record all of the clips, mostly because I kept botching the name of the professor that’s going to be featured on the weekly faculty research spotlight. But after a few more, I start to get the hang of it. Phil then shows me how to import the clips into the editing program that he uses and how to cut out all of my awkward pauses and breaths.

At some point, his phone screen lights up on the desk with an incoming call. The ringer is on silent, but it still catches my attention. The call is from Caroline.

I fully expect him to answer it, or to step out into the hall to do so, but instead he sighs and clicks ‘ignore’. My mind floods with theories. What we’re working on isn’t exactly time sensitive. There’s no good reason for him to put off talking to her unless he wants to. Are they fighting about something? He sighed, but was it a frustrated sigh or more of a sad sigh?

He says nothing of it, and finishes the last clip before showing me how to export the files and where to save them.

“These are for the week after fall break, so you’ll start hearing them air then,” he tells me. We get a four-day weekend after midterms - another opportunity for students who live near enough to visit home. Campus will probably be dead again, but I’m looking forward to the break from classes and to having my room to myself for a few days.

“Cool,” I say, though I’m still not sure how I feel about hearing my own voice on the radio, even if only a few dozen people are listening.

As we’re shutting down the computers, Caroline calls again. Phil still doesn't answer.

Stepping outside of Meriden, I immediately notice that the temperature has dropped significantly. The sun hangs low in the sky, and the wind has picked up, probably blowing in a storm. Phil pulls the sleeves of his Mallard hoodie down over his hands and crosses his arms.

“It’s starting to get chilly in the evenings, isn’t it?” he comments. I think it’s a pretty reasonable temperature, really. But then I remember that Phil grew up in Florida. “Gonna have to break out the winter coat soon,” he adds.

I laugh. “I don’t even have one of those for here, yet,” I tell him. It wasn’t a high priority when I was packing my suitcases in August, not when I could just wait and buy one in the States.

“Dan, you’re going to need a winter coat, and sooner than you might think. It’s not unheard of for it to snow in late October here, you know,” he says. “We should just go get you one now.”

“That’s okay, I can figure that out next weekend, after midterms.”

“No, we should just go now. I need to go to Target anyway,” he justifies, but I get the sense that he’s just trying to put something else off. Returning a phone call, perhaps.

“Okay, sure.” It’s not like I was realistically going to get any schoolwork done on a Saturday evening anyway.

So we walk past the dorms and across the street to where Phil’s car is parked. No music plays when he starts it this time.

Phil clumsily shifts gears as we head down the road, jerking the car each time. I vaguely remember this from the last time I was in his car; how I thought maybe he was just in a hurry. Apparently, this is just how he drives.

“Your eye looks better,” Phil says to me, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, it’s better.” The bruise has all but faded away.

“When you said that you deserved it, you didn’t really mean that, did you?” I did. Kissing a guy at a frat party was an incredibly risky, stupid thing to do. Phil has too much faith in me.

“I went to a party after the homecoming game, and I kissed someone that I shouldn’t have.”

“Oh,” he says. “Someone’s girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?” he casually asks, as if that’s the next logical question. I freeze. Is he baiting me? Does he know? Maybe he’s heard the story somehow. Maybe he has friends in Beta Gamma. It doesn’t seem like his sort of crowd, but who knows? This campus is a pretty small world, and Phil has all sorts of connections.

I stare at him for what is probably a suspiciously long time before answering, “No.”

“Did the person not want to be kissed?” he asks with a worried expression on his face.

“No, nothing like that,” I reassure him. “It was someone’s ex. There were some unresolved issues that I accidently got in the middle of.”

“That doesn’t sound like you deserved it,” he points out. “Especially not if it was an accident.”

The sensible part of me knows that he’s right, of course. It’s not like I was trying to cause trouble. I just always seem to find it nonetheless.

The store ends up having several different black coats for me to pick from, and I’m able to find one that I like. I take the opportunity to buy laundry detergent and shampoo as well, because the convenience store on campus is grossly overpriced. Phil only buys a box of Pop Tarts, further proving that we’ve only come here for my benefit.

His driving doesn’t improve on the way back.

“God, are you trying to turn your car into some sort of amusement park ride that makes people vomit?” I ask sarcastically so that he knows I’m not trying to be mean. His driving really is fucking absurd, though.

“What? Oh, sorry,” he says as we jerk from first to second to third gear after rounding another corner. “Caroline always says the same thing.” His tone is somber, like the thought of her makes him sad. They’ve definitely had some sort of fight.

“That’s because you’re ridiculous, Phil Lester,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

He smiles. I feel triumphant.

“The way you say my name, it sounds like…”

“Like what?” I ask, not sure what he’s getting at. He’s never been particularly enamored by my accent, not like some of the other people I’ve met here at least.

“Nothing. It sounds funny, that’s all.”

“Well, Lester’s a pretty English-sounding name.”

“It is an English name,” he confirms, as if that explains everything.

I’m tempted to ask what he’s on about, but we’ve already arrived back to campus, so I refrain.

“Well this was a fun adventure,” I say as we’re walking back to the residence halls.

“Yeah, but now we have to go back to reality and the whole midterms thing.”

“And also the whole ‘no longer having an excuse to ignore your girlfriend’ thing?”

He sighs. “I wasn't ignoring her, I was just busy.”

“Yes, because clearly being my chauffeur for the day should be your number one priority.”

“As your PMACC, I can’t exactly condone letting you freeze to death this winter,” he says. After a long pause, he adds, “And I like spending time with you, okay?”

“Why?” I ask, truly taken aback. I’m not exactly most people’s idea of pleasant company.

But he just laughs, smiles, and shakes his head. “I just do,” he says, like it’s that simple. “You’re so different from anyone I’ve ever met.”

Something flickers within me, a silly little thing called “hope”. For the first time, I begin to imagine us not as a moth and a flame, but as two magnets held apart by many forces, yet steadily pulling toward each other.

I have no idea how to properly respond to that, so I just say, “Thanks for the ride, by the way.”

“Any time,” he offers. Somehow it sounds more like a plea than an invitation.


	9. Cereal Theft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) as usual. Thanks!

Carpenter Hall is eerily quiet on the Saturday morning following midterms week. Classes are canceled on Monday and Tuesday, so most everyone has gone home for the break. I had assumed that Tom would stay and keep me company rather than flying to California, but it turned out that he had other plans. He mentioned after our Psych midterm yesterday that Aubrey had invited him to come home to Chicago with her for the weekend. So I guess she decided to take my advice and make a move, then.

Not a single person from my FYS has decided to stay here aside from me. But it’s not like I really mind the solitude. No, the most depressing thing about fall break is that Huxley North is closed for the entire four-day weekend.

I begrudgingly walk over to Hux South shortly after noon. Campus must not be entirely deserted, as there are at least a dozen other people here for brunch. I skip the line at the ‘build-your-own omelet’ station and opt for pancakes instead. That’s one thing that Americans do well: pancakes.

As I’m filling a cup with orange juice, I spot Phil over by the cereal dispensers. He fills three bowls with Cinnamon Toast Crunch, but only adds milk to one of them. What the fuck? What sort of human eats that much cereal? I duck behind the soft serve ice cream machine so that he doesn’t see me as he walks by.

He sits down at one of the unoccupied circular tables with his back toward me. I watch as he takes off his backpack and pulls out two empty plastic containers. He glances from side to side, and incorrectly concludes that no one is watching him. Then he pours the cereal from the second and third bowls into the containers and sticks them back in his bag. Stealing it.

I walk up right behind him and clear my throat. “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask in my best American accent, hoping to freak him out, make him think he’s been caught by someone who gives a shit.

It works, too. He nearly jumps out of his seat. His eyes are wide with fear when he turns around to look at me.

“Oh my god, you scared me!” he exclaims. “You're a jerk.”

“And you’re a thief,” I retort, sitting down on the other side of the table.

“Hey, cereal’s expensive!” I smirk at him, glad to know that underneath his rule-following PMAC exterior, he’s still a normal, broke university student.

“Do you steal milk to go with it, or…?” I ask, still a bit confused by this whole scenario.

“No, I just eat it dry,” he tells me, like that’s a perfectly normal thing to do. I wrinkle my eyebrows, judging him. “What? It makes a good snack!”

“That’s disgusting and uncivilized.” Cereal is best mildly soggy. “Is that why some people choose to come here instead of Hux North? To steal the food?”

“Oh, probably. But I genuinely prefer Hux South. There are so many more options.”

“But half of them might give you food poisoning.”

“It’s not actually that bad. I mean, sure, sometimes they make pork chops that are a bit questionable, but most things are perfectly fine. You’ve just got to know how to make the most of it.”

“Via cereal theft?”

He rolls his eyes. “No, you’ve just got to get creative. Mix it up.” My blank stare must convey that I still don’t understand what he’s talking about. “For example, hamburgers and sandwiches are fine, but that gets old after awhile, right? But, if you ask nicely, the sandwich line lady might give you a tortilla, and you can take that tortilla to the salad bar and add cheese and chicken or bacon and vegetables if you’re feeling fancy. And then you can take that to the panini press in the back and make yourself a quesadilla.”

He smiles at me triumphantly. I remain mostly unimpressed.

“Or you can also put peanut butter and chocolate chips in that tortilla and make a dessert quesadilla. The tortillas are the most underutilized resource in this place in my opinion. Or possibly the ice cream machine.”

This comment surprises me. I’ve seen lots of people walk out of South with ice cream cones in their hands. “How is the ice cream underutilized?”

“Because most people just eat it.”

“What else are you supposed to do with it?” I’m genuinely concerned.

“Make milkshakes, of course.” This earns him another blank stare. “You have not lived until you have had a Huxley milkshake,” he declares. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

I abandon my half-eaten pancakes and follow Phil back over to the food. He hands me a tall plastic cup and a spoon, and collects one of each for himself.

“Your choices start out pretty basic: chocolate, vanilla, or swirl.” He pulls the handle and fills his cup about half full with chocolate soft serve. I choose vanilla, just to be different. 

“And now the rest of this giant buffet becomes a game of ‘can I make this into a milkshake ingredient’? The possibilities are almost endless. My personal favorite thing to add is coffee.” He adds a small amount of coffee to his glass, then tops it off with semi-skimmed milk and stirs it all together with his spoon. “Your turn,” he tells me.

There are bottles of chocolate sauce and caramel next to the ice cream machine. I add some caramel to my cup, and Phil nods, but seems unimpressed. We walk around for a bit and explore the options. He points out that the peanut butter and cinnamon sugar from the toast station are good options. I eventually decide to crumble up a small brownie and add it to my concoction.

“I have to say, I never would have thought of doing this,” I admit after we return to our table.

“This is my fourth year here. You have to get creative or else you’ll die of boredom.”

“I may die of boredom by the end of this weekend. Everyone’s gone home. At least I have the radio show to look forward to,” I mention. Last Sunday, Phil found a spare chair in one of the nearby offices so that I could take a closer look at all that he does during the show. He showed me what most of the buttons do, and we played with the sound effects during the song breaks. It was a lot of fun.

“Actually, there’s no radio show this Sunday,” he tells me apologetically. “There is never anything on-air during official university breaks. Who would listen, you know?”

“Oh, I guess that makes sense.” I feel incredibly stupid for not realizing that. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. “Then why are you still here? Why didn’t you go somewhere for the weekend like everyone else?” Florida is quite far away, so I can see why he didn’t go home, but I know that his girlfriend lives fairly close by.

“I’m one of the on-duty RA’s this weekend,” he explains. “We only get one of the three long weekends off during the semester : Labor Day, fall break, or Thanksgiving. I’m working this weekend so that I can go with Caroline to see her family for Thanksgiving.”

I can’t help but wonder if that’s still the plan after witnessing him ignore her calls last week. Them fighting about something that he wouldn’t share with me. “Oh, I see.”

“Caroline stayed in town this weekend too. She and her roommates are having a get-together tomorrow evening, actually. You should come with me.”

I’d rather pluck out my own eyeballs, thanks. “I don’t know if –”

“No, you should really come,” he insists.

“Aren’t you two fighting?”

“Huh? Oh, last weekend,” he recalls. “It was nothing. Midterms stress, mostly.” He waves his hand, explains it away. “There will be free food. Good food.”

The way to any student’s heart: free food.

“Please?” he asks. There’s a sort of hopeful sadness in his eyes. How could I ever say no to those eyes? But how can I voluntarily put myself in a position where I’ll have to watch them be all couple-y again?

In the end, I say yes. Because I’m an emotional masochist, apparently.

I meet up with Phil by the Carpenter front desk early Sunday evening. He smiles at me warmly, and asks me what I did all day, which was a whole lot of nothing. We walk north along 29 th Street.

“Wait, doesn’t Caroline live in a sorority house?” I ask, confused about our direction of travel. Greek Street is west of campus, not north.

“Their house isn’t big enough for all of the upperclassmen to live there, unfortunately. She lived there last year when she was on the executive counsel. But she gave up her spot this year so that other girls could have a chance.”

Because she’s so selfless, of course.

Caroline lives with three other girls in a rental house two blocks north of campus. We walk in without knocking. There are maybe ten other people here. We find Caroline in the kitchen.

“Oh hey, Dan! Want a beer?” she asks, handing me a bottle.

“Sure,” I say, knowing full well that Phil’s not going to let me keep it.

“Caroline!” he chastises.

“What? He’s of legal drinking age in his own country, but you know that.”

“Yes, but we’re not  _ in _ England.”

“No, but we are on private property. This isn’t going to be some loud, crazy party where the cops show up. And it’s one beer. Let the kid live a little.”

Phil rolls his eyes, but voices no further objection. I take a drink from the bottle as he walks away, presumably to say hello to some of the other guests. Maybe Caroline isn’t so bad after all.

She introduces me to a few of her friends, which leads to the usual round of questions. Where are you from? What’s your major? What are you doing with your life?

I learn that Caroline is an elementary education major from a small town about 40 miles west of Des Moines. She also mentions that she intends to move back there to teach after graduation. She seems so excited about the prospect, about being closer to her family again. She also keeps saying, “we’ll get a house,” and “we’ll do this or that,” and she of course means her and Phil. I have no idea what Phil’s post-graduation plans are; I’ve never asked. But this town she’s talking about seems like the kind of place where you’d have to at least be engaged to live together without the neighbors talking. And god, I can’t picture Phil living that life at all.

“Phil’s not too keen on the idea, but I know that we can make it work.” So maybe this is what they’ve been fighting about. I can see why.

They’re so different. She’s old school: small town, traditional job, loves children, probably wants five of her own. He’s new media: creative, loves technology, wanted to make a visual radio show for his senior thesis.

“How did you two meet, anyway?” I ask her, hoping to somehow understand.

“We met when we lived in GK sophomore year,” she tells me. “My three roommates and I got into a prank war with Phil and his friends.” That’s not exactly where I thought this was going. “It started because of Goldilocks, right Stacy?” she asks, addressing one of the two girls sitting with us.

Apparently “Goldilocks” was some mystery drunk girl that snuck into their room one Saturday night and slept in their roommate’s bed. The roommate was staying the night with her boyfriend, but hadn’t told them that she was going to be away. The drunk girl somehow happened to pick the exact right bed to borrow, and no one noticed until the morning. “We never figured out who she was. It was easily the strangest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Stacy says.

“So anyway, we somehow found out that Goldilocks had been see in this particular room of guys the night before, so we assumed that they sent her on purpose, and decided to get them back,” Caroline explains.

The girls discovered that Phil and his roommates rarely locked their door. One of them snuck in one day and cut their shower curtain off at about waist height. The guys were majorly offended, because they claimed that Goldilocks had wandered into the wrong bed of her own drunken accord. They retaliated by pouring an entire jug of liquid laundry detergent under the girls’ door.

“That was a nightmare,” Stacy comments.

“It took forever to clean up,” Caroline says. “Things were getting out of hand, so we decided on one more prank that would hopefully put an end to it. Something really big, so that they would know not to mess with us again.”

“We waited for them to all go to dinner one evening, and then we hid four or five cheap alarm clocks in with their stuff, that were all set to go off at different times really early in the morning. Like 2:30 AM, 3:15, 4:45. Something like that,” Stacy says. God, that’s fucking brutal. You’d have no idea when the next one would go off or how many more there were. You’d think they would have learnt to lock their door after the shower curtain incident.

“It worked, too,” Caroline says. “They came to us and apologized, asked for a truce and everything. That’s when we found out that Phil had a test the morning after the alarm clocks. I guess it didn’t go so well. I felt really bad, and asked how I could make it up to him. And he said, ‘let me buy you dinner sometime’.”

“And the rest is history,” Stacy concludes. Caroline excuses herself from the group, citing that she needs to pull the lasagnas out of the oven.

I still don’t get it. Caroline’s this mature young woman that bakes homemade lasagna for her friends and dreams of having children sooner rather than later. Phil’s a twenty one year old man-child who steals cereal from the dining hall.

“I’m glad to see that you’re doing well,” Caroline says to me after dinner. Phil volunteered to do the dishes since she cooked, and I thought about going to help him, that is until Caroline cornered me.

“Thanks?” Was she expecting me not to be?

“It’s just that, well, Phil was sort of worried about you when he first agreed to add you to the FYS,” she tells me. “He wasn’t sure how well you’d fit in.”

I had no idea that Phil had even consulted about that. “They told me that it was the only FYS that still had an open seat.”

“I think it was more like he was the first PMAC that said he’d take you. Because it was so last minute, you know. But of course he’d be the first one to say yes to the add-on British kid.”

She emphasizes the word ‘British’, as if that matters somehow. “Why is that?” I ask.

“Well, you know,” she says with a smile. But no, I don’t know. What is it that I don’t know? “Wait, he hasn’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

“That he’s British.” I stare at her in confusion. Phil’s probably one of the most stereotypically American people that I’ve met here. “Well, his family is British. His parents are English. His brother was born there, and then they moved to Florida. Phil was born here, so he has dual citizenship.”

What the fuck? “And that’s why he let them put me in his FYS?” What, because he thought I’d relate to him somehow? That’s pretty damn presumptuous. No wonder he didn’t tell me.

“I mean, I think it had something to do with it. He wanted to watch out for you, you know?”

So much for Phil enjoying spending time with me. No, it’s all some scheme to keep me from being the weird antisocial foreign kid. It’s not me, it’s this weird, fucked up commonality we share, some bizarre twist of fate. God, I’m such an idiot.   

Caroline has turned out to be a wealth of information. She makes a mean lasagna, too. Maybe that’s what he sees in her. Maybe he buys into her dream for their future domestic bliss more than I think he should. What do I know? Certainly not Phil.


	10. A Passive-Aggressive Sock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing.

“These news headlines are so boring,” Phil comments, preparing to read off the CNN bulletin as soon as the new Green Day single finishes playing. “I know that updates on how the stock market is doing are important to some people, but it’s just not exciting. At all.”

I have to agree. Whatever new-fangled ways the presidential candidates have found to tear each other apart this week might be slightly more entertaining, but it certainly does get old after a while.

I’ve decided not to ask Phil about his secret second passport or his stupid notion that he needs to watch out for me because we share a nationality, and only on paper. No, I’m saving that fun conversation for another time.

“Like, where are the stories about people saving kittens from trees? Or otters playing the piano?” Phil continues.

“Buzzfeed?” I suggest.

“That’s it. Maybe we should get our news bulletin from Buzzfeed. Call it the internet news or something,” he jokes. But I know that the station is contractually obligated to read the CNN headlines at least once per hour.

Phil reads the boring headlines, and then yawns while Shane talks to a caller. She asks to hear something by Twenty One Pilots, so they play  _ Heathens _ .

“Tired?” Shane asks Phil after the song starts.

“Yeah, I’ve been pretty busy with my capstone proposal lately,” Phil says. I’m not exactly sure what a capstone is, but I’ve gathered that it’s something incredibly stressful that seniors do just before graduation. 

“And we have that paper due for Strategic Media Planning.”

“I haven’t even started that; I should work on that tonight. But I also need to study for my Astronomy test on Tuesday.”

“Astronomy? Why the hell are you taking that senior year?”

“I still needed a second science credit,” Phil explains. The university wants its graduates to be well-rounded, so the Journalism students have to take a few science classes; the literature majors have to take calculus; and the chemistry majors have to take history. That’s another reason why I’m glad I won’t be subjugated to the graduation requirements of this school.

“Kind of left it until the last minute, didn’t you?”

Phil shrugs his shoulders, but I know what he’s thinking. The last minute would be taking the class next semester, right before graduation. So no, he’s not been that irresponsible.

They play the weekly station announcements after the song finishes, the ones that I recorded with Phil two weeks ago. I take my headphones off this time, not wanting to listen to my voice again. It makes me uncomfortable, even if Phil says that I did a good job and that I sound just fine.

Miraculously, there is another caller by the time the recording finishes. The show seems to have gained a substantial number of new listeners since Aubrey forced me to hang fliers all over campus earlier this week. Apparently the advertising has worked.  “Hello caller, you’re on air with the Sunday request show,” Shane greets.

“Hi, so I’m a pretty frequent listener, but I’ve never called in before,” the female voice tells us.

“Very cool. What made you decide to call us tonight?”

“Okay, this is gonna sound weird, but who is the British guy reading the info blurb this week?” Phil looks over at me and smiles. I want to crawl under the desk and hide, not that the caller can see me as it is. “I’ve tried to listen to a bunch of different shows this week, but I haven’t heard him. So, is he a new DJ? When’s his show?” she asks.

Shane looks at Phil, silently telling him to handle this one.

“That’s actually our friend, Dan, who just so happens to be here in the studio with us this evening,” Phil says. “Say hi, Dan.”

I glare at him, panicking. He glares back, then gestures to the microphone. He’s put me on the spot. It would be incredibly awkward for me not to say anything.

“Um, hello,” I say into the mic.

“Hi Dan! This is so cool. So do you have your own show that I’m just oblivious to?”

“No, I don’t have a show, sorry. I’m only a freshman, so I’m just sort of learning how this all works for the moment.”

“Oh, gotcha. Well, I think they should give you your own show. Your voice is dead sexy.”

I back away from the microphone. I have no idea what to say to that. I can feel my cheeks turning red. Phil is smirking at me.

The silence lingers, but neither Phil nor Shane come to my rescue.

“Thank you,” I choke out. “Would you like to request a song?”

“Oh, sure!” she says like it’s an afterthought. “Could you play  _ Good Grief _ by Bastille?” I look over at Shane, because I have no idea if they have that song in the system. He quickly searches for it, and then gives me a thumbs up.

“Absolutely. Thanks for calling!” I back away from the microphone as quickly as I can, still embarrassed beyond belief.

“That was good,” Phil tells me while the song plays. But complimenting me isn’t going to make me forgive him for forcing me into that situation in the first place. “You could totally do this, you know.” Shane nods like he agrees. Considering how uneasy that one conversation made me feel, I’m not so sure.

The show wraps up without any further excitement, and I find myself thankful for the chill in the autumn air when I finally step outside. I walk back to Carpenter, and climb the stairs to my floor. My neighbors tend to leave their doors open to the hallway in the evenings, especially on Sundays. I think Alexis started it, saying that it would make us more social or something. Tonight, however, all of the doors are closed. It doesn’t take me long to spot why.

There’s a sock on the door handle of room 229. My room.

I almost turn around and knock on Tom and Jake’s door to ask if I can hang out there until the girl leaves, but I decide against it. It’s Sunday night, prime studying time because everyone’s probably put off all of their work from late last week until now.

Instead, I decided to walk down to the lobby and wait an hour or so. Nate knows that I’m usually back from the studio by now, so he’ll wrap things up soon. The lobby’s couches and chairs are populated by maybe a half dozen other students working away on their laptops. I sit in a chair in the corner wishing I had my laptop as some form of entertainment. I’ve got my phone with me, but it’s at 30% battery.

I wait until 11 before going back upstairs, but the sock is still there. I return at 11:30, and still it remains, taunting me. Because I do have a key to that room in my pocket. I could very easily barge in right now and make Nate feel even more awkward than he’s making me feel right now.

I’m not sure if his increased rate of sexual exploits is do to him joining a fraternity or because he found out about my preferences. The two things happened at about the same time. He’s brought girls around before, but he’s always told me before and made it quick. And I never minded that. But kicking me out of my own room on a Sunday night feels personal, like he somehow needs to prove to me just how heterosexual he is.

Well, good for him. 

The lobby starts to clear out as it gets closer to midnight. At 12:07, the on-duty RA comes to tell me and the other two stragglers that the lobby in fact closes at 12, and that we need to return to our rooms.

Shit.

Again, I could knock on Tom’s door. I’m sure that he would let me sleep on his futon. But I’m also pretty sure that his roommate, Jake, is already asleep by now, and Tom might be too. I really don’t want to be that arsehole.

But I do know someone who is probably still awake.

I climb the stairs to the third floor, and cross the skyway into Harlan hall. I can see a sliver of light peeking out from beneath the door of room 335, so I knock.

Phil opens the door promptly, and looks rather surprised to see me.

“Hi Dan, is everything okay?” he asks. He’s wearing plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt.

“So… remember during Welcome Weekend when you said that we could come sleep on your floor if we ever got sexiled?” I try to keep my tone casual, to not sound desperate.

“Oh,” he says, surprised again. “Yeah, come in,” he offers.

“Thanks,” I say. He swings the door open wider and steps to the side. His room is considerably smaller than mine, but he doesn’t have to share it with anyone – another perk of being an RA. His bed is on the right, mirrored by his dresser and desk on the left. He has a Muse poster on the wall, a collage of all their different album covers. There’s a pile of camera equipment – tripods, lights, and microphones – in the corner of the room. Phil’s laptop is open, and there’s some sort of video editing program on the screen.

“Are you working on a class project?” I ask. Phil locks the door and returns to sit in his desk chair. Sitting on his bed seems weird and invasive, so I sit on the floor.

“Actually, I was working on a Youtube video,” he tells me.

“Oh. Is that what all of this stuff is for?” I ask, pointing to the pile in the corner. He nods. “So it’s just something you do for fun, then?” I know that he’s mentioned Youtube before, but I didn’t realize that he made his own videos.

“Yeah, mostly. I make a little bit of money from it, too, but not enough for it to really matter.” But he does get enough views to actually earn ad revenue? That’s impressive.

“Cool,” I say. Maybe I’ll try to find his channel sometime.

“So what’s going on with you and Nate? Are you having communication issues?” he asks me after closing his laptop and swiveling his chair in my direction. 

“You could say that, I guess. He usually warns me before he brings a girl over. But not this time.”

Phil makes a sour face, like he’s about to take this personally. Or recommend that we seek couple’s counseling. 

“It’s not a big deal, I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow,” I add.

“If you need me to say something to him-”

“No! No, I’m sure it will be fine,” I say, cutting him off. I don’t need a babysitter, thanks.

“Okay,” he concedes. “It’s late, we should sleep. You probably have an early morning class, right?” I nod. Most freshmen do. Phil excuses himself to go brush his teeth and get ready for bed. I pull off my hoddie and scrunch it up, planning to use it as a pillow. Sleeping in my jeans won’t be ideal, but I’ll survive.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” I say when he returns. “You could keep working if you want.”

“It’s no big deal; I’ll finish it another time. I really should have been working on my coursework, or my grad school applications anyway.” Phil searches through his wardrobe, and finds a spare blanket for me to use.

“Thanks,” I say when he hands it to me. “I didn’t know that you were applying to grad school.” Caroline had certainly made it sound like Phil was going to get a job in Des Moines and commute from her tiny, idyllic hometown 40 minutes away.

“Yeah, I’m just trying to keep my options open right now. I really don’t know what I’ll be doing this time next year, and that’s kind of scary.” He flips the light switch by the door and gets into bed.

“You and me both,” I say. “Do you want to go to grad school?”

“I’d rather do that than try for some low-level job at a local TV station. It would at least buy me more time before I have to choose a career. Before I have to give up Youtube for good.”

“Why would you have to give it up?”

“Companies don’t like their employees having public side projects. They tend to think that it’s unprofessional,” he explains. “So unless you’re one of the lucky few that can make a living off of Youtube alone, it’s really not a good idea.”

“But you’d keep doing it if you could? If that could be your job?”

“Absolutely,” he admits. “Caroline would hate it, though. She doesn’t even like the idea of me getting a Masters.”

“So what? It’s your life, not hers.”

“It’s complicated, Dan. Caroline wants stability, and I can’t blame her for that.” He probably thinks that he loves her, and that sacrificing his dreams is worth it to make her happy. I think that he needs to wake up and smell his own bullshit.

“That doesn’t mean that it’s okay for her to get everything that she wants while you don’t.”

Phil sighs, clearly frustrated with me.

“I’m sorry, I know that it isn’t my place to criticize.” I shift over to lie on my back because my hipbone is already starting to hurt.

“It’s not,” he says. “But you’re right, though,” he adds quietly. Maybe he’s just now admitting that to himself.

It’s silent for a few minutes, and I’m prepared to let the conversation end there.

“I can’t let you actually sleep on the floor, that’s got to be ridiculously uncomfortable,” Phil declares, propping himself up on his elbow.

“It’s fine, really,” I insist. It’s a hell of a lot better than sleeping outside on a bench somewhere, which is really my only other option at this point.

“No, you should sleep on the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“But you’re the guest.”

“I invited myself, so that hardly counts,” I counter.

“No, technically I did invite you. I’ve made that offer to my FYS for the last two years, but no one’s ever actually taken me up on it.” Until now. God, I’m so fucking pathetic.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not letting you sleep on the floor of your own dorm room.”

“Well then, I guess you’ll have to sleep up here with me,” he says.

What?

“Phil, that bed is tiny. There’s no way for that to work without us basically spooning.”

“So?” he asks. I could give him at least one damn good reason why this is a terrible idea, but I don’t. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s okay, really.”

“I know that you’re stubborn, but it’s really not worth the backache you’re bound to have in the morning.” He shifts back, pressing himself against the wall. “See? Plenty of room.”

So, against my better judgment, I crawl under the covers beside him, my heart beating like it’s trying to escape from my chest. Because I shouldn’t. Because I want to anyway.

I lie on my side facing away from him, which is awkward. But the option of facing toward him seems even more awkward. We’re not actually touching, but I can feel his warmth radiating across the centimeters that separate us.

“I feel like I’m going to fall off the edge,” I say truthfully.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Phil says. Suddenly, he puts his arm around me and pulls me backward until I’m leaning against his chest. “There, that’s better.”

It isn’t, but at the same time, it is. My mind races, trying to analyze what this all means. Unlike me, Phil seems perfectly relaxed. He falls asleep quickly.

I don’t understand how I got here, how he thought that this would be a good idea. And my phone’s probably dead by now, so I have no idea if I’ll wake up in time to make it to my psychology lecture. What I do know it that I can feel Phil’s breath on the back of my neck and the gentle press of his arm around my waist, and that regardless of whether or not it should, it feels so right. 


	11. Voluntarily Getting Lost in a Corn Field

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! And shout out to the [Pumpkinville Corn Maze](http://www.pumpkinvillecornmaze.com/). Their mazes are always much cooler than the one I made up. 
> 
> Beated by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). Thanks!

“I want I-80, right? Not I-35?” Alexis asks as we’re approaching the interchange. We were supposed to follow Nick and Phil’s cars to wherever it is that we’re going, but we got separated driving through downtown.

“Yeah, 80 East toward Davenport,” Tom confirms from the seat next to me. He’s got his phone open to Google maps, playing the backseat navigator. I’m just glad someone knows where we’re going.

Apparently, Phil decided that since it’s the weekend before Halloween, we all needed to go on an FYS bonding trip to a corn maze. Phil, who I’ve barely seen and haven’t actually spoken to since Monday morning, when I woke up in his bed after my 9AM lecture was already halfway finished. Who, I’m sure regrets the whole bed-sharing incident. That’s why I panicked that morning, jumped up and left without even saying “thank you” or “goodbye”. Because I’m a real class act, of course.

“Is there a pumpkin patch at this place, too, or is it just a corn maze?” Aubrey asks to no one in particular. She somehow had the bad luck of being relegated to the SUV’s third row. 

“I’m not sure,” Alexis says from the driver's seat. “I know Phil did mention roasting s’mores, though.”

“Oh, that’ll be fun!” Lauren chimes in from the passenger seat. I’m not entirely sure how one roasts s’mores or what exactly a corn maze is, but I assume that I’ll find out soon enough.

We drive on the interstate for another 15 minutes or so, then exit and drive through a tiny town with only two stoplights. We catch back up to Phil on the two-lane road, and then turn off into a grassy field that is already packed with cars. The corn maze appears to be a popular local attraction. 

“Open October 1st through Beggar’s Night,” Lauren reads off of the sign. “What’s Beggar’s Night?”

“Oh, I’ve heard about that!” Alexis says. “Apparently they go trick-or-treating the night before Halloween in Des Moines. They call it Beggar’s Night, and you have to tell a joke in order to get any candy.”

“Weird,” says Aubrey. 

After parking, we rejoin the rest of our group and walk to the farmer’s barn to buy our tickets.

“They should really call it a “maíz” maze. You know, like the Spanish word for corn?” Tom suggests while we’re waiting in line. Aubrey rolls her eyes.

In exchange for my $6 in cash, I’m given a small, square, piece of paper with a string of shapes around the border including different sized circles, squares, diamonds, stars, and hearts. The text in the middle explains that there are hole punches hidden throughout the maze that correspond to each shape. Collecting them all allows for entry into a raffle drawing with winners to be picked at the end of the season. Seems easy enough.

I’m just about to escape into the maze with Tom and Aubrey when I hear Phil calling after me. “Hey, wait up,” he says after I turn to see him walking toward me with determination. So maybe he’s noticed that I conveniently sidestepped his offer to ride here in his car.

“Hey,” I say impassively. I glance back over my shoulder to see that my two friends have continued on without me. Traitors.

“Is everything okay?” Phil asks.

“Yeah, just fine,” I answer, assuming that he’s asking about my roommate and our lack of effective communication about when he can kick me out to shag some girl. On Monday afternoon, Nate asked me where I ended up spending the night, and I told him that I slept on Phil’s floor. He apologized, saying that he just lost track of time. That was the end of that conversation. He also declined to join us all on our class outing to the corn maze and is probably taking advantage of this time accordingly with that girl, or maybe a different one. As long as I can sleep in my own bed tonight, I couldn’t care less.

But Phil just looks at me with this worried expression. Worrying about me shouldn’t be his responsibility, but he continues to do it anyway. I start walking toward the maze entrance again, wondering if I might be able to catch up to Tom and Aubrey after all. But Phil falls into step with me.

“It’s just that… Well, you left in such a hurry on Monday morning. I hope I didn’t make things too awkward?” He seems genuinely concerned that the awkwardness of us spooning was somehow his fault. How very Phil.

“No,” I tell him as we step through the entrance to the maze. I’m about as tall as the dried up corn stalks that form the walls of the maze, so I can sort of see over them. It feels like cheating somehow. “My phone died, so my alarm never went off and I missed my first class. That’s why I was a little panicked,” I lie. It had more to do with the fact that waking up still pressed against him felt so damn good, but knowing that it was meaningless to him was crushingly unbearable. I had to escape that disappointment, and quickly.

“Okay,” Phil says. “I just wouldn’t want for things to be weird between us.” They’re already pretty damn weird, but whatever.

Our path soon splits into three different channels dug through the sea of corn. I have no idea which way Aubrey and Tom might have gone. I could always fall back and join the next group of my classmates to come through, but I decide to stick with Phil. The sun is setting rapidly, and he actually thought to bring a torch. A “flashlight”, as he calls it. That’s one of those particularly stupid American words. The light doesn’t constantly flash on and off, does it? No, because that would be absurd.

I follow Phil down the leftmost path because he seems to know where he’s going. “Is the maze the same every year?” I ask.

“No, they change the design every season. The ticket lady told me that it’s a giant spider web this time!”

“Then why do you act like you know where you’re going?” I ask.

“Because I hear people up this way. Probably gathered around one of the hole punches,” he explains.

Sure enough, after we round a long bend, we come across a group of younger kids that I would estimate to be thirteen-year-olds, huddled around a metal post with a hole punch attached to it with a short cable. They’re all taking turns punching out the corresponding shape on their tickets. We wait our turn, and then use the diamond-shaped punch ourselves.

“Are you still coming to the radio show on Sunday?” Phil asks me.

“Yeah, of course,” I answer. He seems relieved, like maybe I was planning to bail on the whole thing. To be fair, that does sound like something I might do.

We come to another intersection in the maze. To the left is a short path that clearly leads back out to the empty field we just came from. To the right is a long, straight path that appears to lead deep into the maze. We decide to keep to our curvy path around the parameter to see where it might take us.

“Aubrey’s marketing has really been making a difference, you know?” I hum in agreement, though I still don’t understand how plastering the campus with paper flyers could really make that much of an impact. “She met with the station director and got approval to make us an official twitter account,” he tells me.

It seems so obvious that the station should have a twitter. I don’t understand how Phil’s never thought of that before. “Why have you never tried to promote the show on twitter?” I ask him.

“I’ve thought about it. But I use my twitter for my Youtube channel, and I really don’t want to mix the two, you know?” I nod. He’s told me before that he doesn’t want his Youtube hobby to keep him from getting a real job, so that’s probably what he’s getting at. How just mentioning his university radio station would matter that much, I don’t understand. “But anyway, you know that caller who said she thought you should have your own show?”

“Yeah,” I say, though I’d rather not be reminded of that experience.

“She’s not the only one.” Now I really don’t like where this is going.

It’s properly dark now, and we’re navigating the maze by the light of Phil’s torch. So far, we’ve come across four additional paths that appear to lead toward the center of the maze – the spokes of the spider’s web – and we’ve only found one additional star-shaped hole punch. We also seem to be on the opposite side of the field from where we started. At the next intersection, we decided to turn down the perpendicular path.

“I talked to Shane about it,” Phil continues. “He’s all for letting you do the request show one week.”

“I don’t think that that would be a good idea,” I reply. I’m still intrigued by the show and how it all works, but I’d feel more comfortable taking on Phil’s producer duties than trying to host. Maybe I can work myself up to talking to a caller or two, but all of them? No way. I’m bound to say something stupid or offensive or accidentally swear on the air and force the station to pay some horrendous fine.

“I think you’d be great at it,” Phil persists. I let the conversation end there.

Our path comes to an abrupt end, spitting us out at another trail that runs parallel to the outer ring that we just left. It didn’t cut all the way to the center of the web like we’d thought. Maybe the maze is more complicated than I’d originally assumed.

“Hey, guys!” a female voice calls. Alexis walks past us along with Sarah, Kayla, and Grace. “There’s a square punch just back that way,” Alexis offers, pointing back the way they came.

“Thanks,” I tell her, and we head in that direction. After acquiring our third punch, we eventually reach another perpendicular path, this one slightly wider. I look down the channel and see no end in sight. This path does in fact lead us to a larger circular clearing in the center of the maze where eight different trails all intersect. We find three more punches: a small circle, a flower, and a triangle, bringing our grand total to six of the eighteen total shapes around the edges of our tickets.

“This is impossible,” I declare. “It would probably take us hours to find all of these.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda the point,” Phil says. “Caroline and I spent about three hours here sophomore year, and we ended up finding all but one of them before we gave up. It is basically impossible. I need to head back soon and make sure the campfire is set up for us,” he adds.

“Okay,” I say. I’m tired of almost rolling my ankles on corn cobs that are half-buried in the mud.

We cut down one of the eight paths, and it leads us directly out of the maze. We’re shown to our designated fire pit – there are about twenty on the property – and Phil thanks the proprietor for lighting the fire for us. Phil retrieves the s’mores supplies from his car: half a dozen metal rods with wooden handles, two bags of large marshmallows, and a plethora of Hershey’s chocolate bars and Honey Maid graham crackers. My job is to arrange the white plastic lawn chairs in a circle around the fire.

“What are these for?” I ask, holding up one of the metal rods.

“For roasting the marshmallows!” Phil explains. He opens one of the bags and skewers a marshmallow with the pointed tip, and then sticks the sugary blob directly into the flames, setting it on fire. He quickly pulls it back and blows out the flaming ball of goo that it now slightly charred on the outside. “See? Then it melts the chocolate in the middle of the graham cracker sandwich.”

Eventually, my classmates all give up on the maze and join us. We take turns roasting our marshmallows while everyone reveals how many punches they were able to find. I’m relieved to learn that most people prefer to gently warm their marshmallows near the fire instead of igniting them outright. Surprisingly, Phil and I did not finish in last place, as Carrie and Gen only managed to locate five. Jake and Ben end up winning the competition with a total of twelve.

“Does anyone know any good ghost stories?” Aubrey asks the group. There are a few murmurs, but no one volunteers. “Or what else could we do?”

“We could play Never Have I Ever,” Phil suggests. This is followed by more murmurs, but they sound more optimistic this time.

“Yeah, that sounds like fun,” Alexis says.

“Okay, everybody start with ten fingers,” Phil says, holding up both of his hands in demonstration. “We’ll go around the circle and each say something we’ve never done, like ‘never have I ever been to Mexico’ or whatever. And if you have done that thing, you have to put down a finger and maybe tell the story. Whoever is the last person with fingers remaining wins.” So basically, the person with the most boring life wins. This game is so stupid that it’s giving me Welcome Weekend flashbacks. “Who wants to start?”

“I’ll go,” Alexis volunteers. “Never have I ever vomited from drinking.”

There’s a chorus of groans, and I put down a finger along with a good number of the group.

Aubrey goes next. “Never have I ever driven on the wrong side of the road,” she says, looking my direction.

“It’s not the  _ wrong _ side of the road if that’s the correct side in that particular country,” I retort.

“Fine. Never have I ever driven on the left side of the road,” she amends.

I roll my eyes and put down another finger. I notice that Phil does the same.

Rather than singling out Aubrey, I get everyone in the group to lose a point by saying, “Never have I ever been a citizen of this country.” Phil smirks at me like he found that to be pretty clever.

Tom uses his turn to say, “Never have I ever seen the Atlantic ocean,” and I’m surprised to find that I’m one of relatively few in the group that has.

“Never have I ever seen an ocean at all,” says Grace. Now that’s fucking depressing.

Next, it’s Gen’s turn. “Never have I ever walked into a pole while texting,” she says while glaring directly at her roommate, Carrie.

“Hey!” Carrie exclaims, but she doesn’t seem terribly offended. “Never have I ever French kissed a guy,” she says, clearly targeting Gen in return.

Technically, I should lose a point for that, but thankfully Nate’s not here to call me out for not putting a finger down along with most of the girls in the class. Still, the thought is a little unnerving. I glance over at Phil, again wondering if he somehow knows. But he’s not looking at me. Like everyone else, he’s focused on Jess, because it’s her turn now.

But I immediately notice that Phil is holding up one less finger.

I count through all of the previous questions in my head, and I’m sure of it. I look around the circle, but no one else seems to have noticed. The game moves on, but my thoughts become a loop of ‘Phil’s snogged a guy. Phil just admitted to snogging a guy’ stuck on repeat.

Phil likes guys. There’s a chance – and maybe it’s only a slim chance, but still – there’s a chance that he might like me back. And yet…

At the end of the day, he’ll still choose Caroline. Because she’s a good person who bakes lasagna. Because she represents stability and everything that society tells us that we should want out of life. All I’ve gained is new information to torture myself with. 


	12. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for beating!

Finding Phil’s “secret” Youtube channel turns out to be easier than I’d anticipated.

I decided to make it my mission for the weekend after Halloween, since Nate chose to go home for a few days and therefore wouldn’t be here to ask any prying questions. Admittedly, I squandered most of Friday playing Guild Wars 2, but it was nice not having Nate around to judge me for that, either. I probably should have started reading Henry VI Part II today, considering that I have a reading quiz on Tuesday, but that’s a problem for another day. No, finding Phil’s Youtube channel becomes my number one priority by Saturday night.

I start by simply googling Phil’s name, which gets me nowhere. This isn’t surprising, considering that Phil doesn’t want his online persona to interfere with his possible future career. No, obviously he’d use a pseudonym.

My next idea is to reverse image search his Facebook profile picture. At first, Google simply returns similarly framed stock photos of guys with dark hair. Then I have the idea to add the search term “phil” to the image. This leads me to a Tumblr post of a photo of Phil on a beach, with the caption “Underappreciated Youtubers 17/?: Phil” and tagged as #amazingphil.

Amazingphil. Sounds like a username.

I search the tag on tumblr first, where I find a collection of screenshots and gifs from Phil’s videos. The most common is a gif of Phil with slightly longer hair saying, “normalness leads to sadness,” which seems very much like something Phil would say. Fucking hell, he has an actual, engaged audience. A few people have even drawn fanart of him.

When I navigate to his actual Youtube channel, I’m immediately impressed by the professional-looking header that Phil probably photoshopped himself. And then I notice the subscriber count: 483,160.

Almost half a million followers, yet Phil’s still hiding the whole project from his friends and from his video production professors.

I watch his two most recent videos, one about working as a camp counselor over the summer, and the other about being back at school for his senior year. He talks about the nostalgia of being back on campus for his last year, and also hints at his uncertainty of where he’ll be this time next year.

I then find a few of his older videos from Phil’s freshmen and sophomore years. The camera quality, lighting, and editing have all improved substantially over the last few years, but the content is pretty similar. He tells stories about awkward things that happened to him, including one time when he was approached by a creepy old man handing out free bibles on campus and instead of saying, “no, thank you,” Phil accidentally told him to “go away”.

Another video, filmed when Phil was at home in Florida one summer, details the saga of a wounded starfish that Phil found on the beach and tried to rehabilitate in a bucket of seawater. The story doesn't end well for the starfish, but Phil somehow manages to make it both heartwarming and funny.

It’s past midnight, and I’m not even the least bit tired. I’ve decided not to worry about it, because tomorrow is the first day of daylight savings time, so I’ll get an extra hour of sleep no matter how late I stay up. And right now, the idea of watching all of Phil’s videos in one go is very tempting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my phone screen light up with a notification. A Facebook message from Phil, of all people. But that’s not so unusual. What’s strange is that instead of being directed to the FYS group chat, this one was sent specifically to me.

_ Are you still awake? _ it reads.

_ Yeah, why? _ I reply.

I can see that he’s read the message, but I get no answer. Maybe five or ten minutes later, he knocks on my door. I minimize my web browser and go to open it.

“Happy bonfire night!” Phil says with an overly exuberant smile on his face. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that. He holds up a plastic bag like some kind of offering. “Well, I guess it’s technically the 6 th now that it’s past midnight, but it still counts, right?”

“Right,” I agree skeptically. “What’s this?” I ask, gesturing to the bag. The name ‘Shelton Fireworks’ is printed on the outside.

“Sparklers!” he says, pulling two oblong boxes out of the plastic bag. “Let’s go outside and light them,” he suggests.

“Where did you get those?” I ask.

“Missouri.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s the next state south of here, about an hour and a half away. They’re really big on fireworks there. They’re legal all year ‘round; can you believe that? Even the big ones. But I thought we might get in trouble for those since they’re illegal here. But these aren’t! Usually they just  sell them here for 4 th of July and New Year’s.” Phil speaks rapidly in his excitement.

“You drove to another state to buy me sparklers for bonfire night?” I ask slowly, still trying to process this information.

“Well, I was sort of already in the area. It’s a long story. We should go outside and light them and I’ll tell you about it,” Phil offers.

“Okay,” I concede, grabbing my coat from its usual spot, draped over the back of my desk chair.

“Sorry for coming by so late,” Phil says as we descend the stairs. “I was on duty in Harlan from 4 to midnight.”

“It’s fine; I’m sort of nocturnal anyway,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I am too. You sort of have to be, to be an RA.” Seeing as one of them has to be on duty at all times, I can see why.

We exit the back door of Carpenter Hall and cross the small bridge over Quad Creek, which is nothing more than a dry, curved path of rocks this time of year. It’s cold enough that I can see my breath. We then turn around and walk down the hill toward the dry creek bed that runs through the U-shaped block of freshmen dorms. There is a ring of stone benches at the bottom of the small valley, which is where we sit to unwrap the sparklers from their packaging.

As I watch Phil struggle with the shrink-wrap, I wonder why on earth he’s gone to so much trouble to make sure that I celebrate a minor holiday that I don’t even care that much about. Sure, bonfire parties back home are fun, but I also know that I’m not really missing out on much. “So why were you near the fireworks place?”

“Oh, I was checking out a few small towns in southern Iowa to see if they might work for part of my capstone project.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s this big project that seniors have to do in order to graduate. For my major, I have to demonstrate my video production skills and also incorporate other things that I’ve learned into something meaningful and reflective of my college experience. It’s pretty open to interpretation. Most people make documentaries, so I’m doing one about life in small town Iowa.” Phil finally succeeds in getting the package open, and hands me a sparkler. He digs around in the bag once again, and this time retrieves a small lighter. He ignites my sparkler, and then his own. “They don’t sell lighters at the fireworks warehouse because of fire code or whatever, so I had to get this at the gas station across the street. The clerk actually tried to sell me a pack of cigarettes to go with it, can you believe that? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“You would think,” I agree. “Didn’t you tell me once that you were planning on making your visual radio show idea into your capstone?” His vast collection of Youtube videos also comes to mind. He could probably make a capstone project out of that somehow.

“Yeah, but that didn’t really work out, so I’ve moved on to plan B.” Phil’s tone is more somber, like maybe this isn’t something he wants to talk about. “What have you been up to today?” He asks, clearly trying to change the subject. He twirls the sparkler thought the air playfully, leaving transient streaks of light in its wake.

“Oh, you know, played some video games, procrastinated doing my homework, watched some Youtube videos,” I say casually.

“What sort of Youtube videos?” Phil asks with genuine curiosity, oblivious to where I’m going with this.

“Your Youtube videos,” I tell him. The sparklers choose this dramatic moment to burn out.

“Oh,” Phil says gloomily.

“No, I really liked them! You clearly know what you’re doing with editing and stuff.”

“Good to know that Mallard has taught me something.” Phil lights another pair of sparklers and gives one to me.

“Video editing seems like something that would be cool to learn,” I comment.

“Take “Intro to Video Production” with Professor Conrad,” Phil says.

“I do need to figure out what classes I’m taking next semester.” Registration starts next week, actually.

“I can’t believe that you actually like my videos. Whenever I tell people about my channel, they think it’s stupid and a waste of time.”

“Well, it’s not,” I say. “You clearly enjoy it, and you’re good at it.” Even if your girlfriend doesn’t think that it’s a legitimate career choice.

“This is a pretty lame excuse for bonfire night, though, isn’t it?” Phil asks, waving his sparkler back and forth in front of my face. People always say ‘it’s the thought that counts’ when children give them shitily-drawn portraits of their dog as a birthday present or whatever, and I think that this is one of those situations. Sure, the sparklers are kind of lame, but Phil didn’t need to do anything for me at all. It’s the thought that counts.

“It was really nice of you to make the effort,” I tell him. “Why are you always doing such nice things for me, anyway? Why me?”

“Because everyone else is boring, and you’re different,” he says without pause. 

I stare at him, not knowing what to say to that. He turns away from my gaze, perhaps regretting his spontaneous sincerity. 

“How do you even know about bonfire night anyway?” Thanks to Caroline, I know damn well how he knows about bonfire night. And maybe it’s time that he knew that I know about that, too. Maybe I can convince him that he doesn't need to keep secrets from me.

“In PMAC training, they talk about how staying in touch with cultural traditions is an effective way of preventing homesickness.”

“Yeah, but how did you even know that bonfire night is a thing?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “ _ V for Vendetta _ ?”

“Right, yeah. Or maybe it’s because you probably grew up hearing about it from your parents. Maybe even celebrated it with your family. Your British family, of course.”

Phil looks utterly stunned. “How do you know about that?” he asks.

“Oh, Caroline told me all about it.” I’m not mad at him, at least not anymore. But I do want him to know that he’s not fooling me. Telling him that I know also serves the dual purpose of letting him know that Caroline isn’t keeping as tight a hold on his secrets as he might think she is. “How we’re compatriots on paper.”

Phil sighs and pauses for a moment before replying. “I just didn’t want you to think that that was the only reason why I wanted to be friends with you. I know that you hate it when people compliment your accent, and when girls flirt with you because of it.” So he’s noticed that.

“I get that,” I admit.

“But yes, my parents insisted that we celebrate bonfire night every year to keep in touch with our heritage, you know. We would always buy fireworks on the 4 th of July and save them until November.”

He seems to perk up when talking about his family, so I decide to continue that train of conversation. “Was it weird having English parents, but growing up in America?”

“Not really. I mean, it was sort of weird when my preschool teachers kept telling me that I was pronouncing things wrong. Or sometimes when my mom would help me with my homework in elementary school, I would get in trouble for spelling words incorrectly. Things like that were confusing for my brother and me when we were little.”

“I can imagine,” I say. “Your brother is older than you, right? Caroline said that he was born before your family moved to the US.”

“Yeah, Martyn’s older. He’s a DJ at a nightclub in Tampa.”

“That’s cool.”

“He’s definitely the cool one. He got all of the good genes somehow. He’s musical, he’s athletic, his hair is a normal color…”

“I quite like your black hair,” I say before I think better of it.

“Oh, I do too,” Phil says. “But it’s not my natural color. I’ve been dyeing it ever since freshman year of high school.”

I stare at him, shocked for a moment. But that makes sense, really. His eyebrows are much lighter, which should have been a dead giveaway. And Phil is quite pale.

“Gingers have no souls, or so I was told in middle school on a daily basis,” he says. “You seem to be uncovering all of my secrets, so you might as well know that one too.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Kids can be really cruel for stupid reasons.”

“It’s fine; it was a long time ago,” he says. But I can’t help but wonder if the fact that he still dyes his hair means that it still bothers him on some level. “Anyway, Martyn might objectively be cooler than me in most every way, but I have one critical advantage that he can never surpass.”

“What’s that?”

“I could, in theory, run for president one day, and he cannot.”

“Oh, because you were born here and he wasn’t?” I remember that being mentioned in my American History class, that the president has to be a “natural born” citizen.

“Exactly,” he affirms.

“Are you… interested in politics?” I ask skeptically. Phil doesn’t strike me as the type.

“Oh, god no!” he says, shaking his head. “Martyn isn’t either, at least not that I’m aware of. But it’s the principle of the thing, you know?”

I do. Sibling rivalry is petty like that. Our sparklers burnt out awhile ago, but neither of us has cared to light new ones.

I glance up at the sky, and notice that I can see a grouping of stars through a break in the clouds. Even though we’re in an urban area, there isn’t enough light pollution to block them from view. Maybe there are some benefits to smaller cities like this one.

Phil turns toward me suddenly with wide eyes, like something in his brain has just sparked a brilliant idea. “Since you know about my Youtube channel now, would you maybe be willing to help me film a video sometime?” Phil asks me. “I have this idea for something that I’ve been wanting to make, but I need a second person.”

“Yeah, sure,” I offer.

“Great! Are you free on Thursday after your FYS?” I nod. “It may involve me drawing something on your face with a sharpie,” he adds.

“…Okay,” I say, wondering what the hell I’ve just gotten myself into. 


	13. Butterflies & Hurricanes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like we all deserve this chapter after the week we just had. 
> 
> Beated by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

On Thursday afternoon, the universe decides to send me a literal “Fuck You” in the form of a giant thunderstorm. By the time that Dr. Anderson releases us from FYS, it’s been absolutely pouring for almost an hour. Everyone is hesitant to leave the building even though we only have about a five-minute walk back to the dorms.

But I’m supposed to be meeting Phil to work on his video, so I brave the rain even though I don’t have an umbrella or even a hood. It’s bitter cold outside, verging on cold enough for the rain to turn to snow or perhaps freeze once it hits the ground. For now at least, it remains plain old rain. It floods the pavement and soaks through my clothes, chilling me to the bone.

I arrive at Phil’s door dripping wet and thoroughly miserable.

“Sorry for making your carpet soggy,” I say to Phil when he opens his door. “But apparently there’s a fucking hurricane outside.”

Phil giggles, and I instantly regret my choice of words. Phil is from Florida. He’s probably seen an actual hurricane or two in his life. “So the Duck Pond is in full force, huh?” he says.

“What?” I ask as I step into his room.

“When it rains and the campus sort of floods because the drainage system is virtually nonexistent,” he explains. “It’s impossible to walk anywhere on campus for at least a day after it rains without encountering numerous ankle-deep puddles. It makes it very apparent that we don’t have a school of engineering here.”

“Right,” I say.

“I was hoping that you would be in the video with me,” Phil tells me. “I want to do a Q&A and have you ask me the questions.”

“Well, I would, but if I don’t do anything to my hair, I’m going to turn into a fucking poodle.” Maybe I’m being melodramatic, but I’m just not willing to let my ridiculous curly hair make me look like an idiot for all of the internet to laugh at.

Phil looks mildly panicked, like I’ve just ruined all of his plans. “Don’t worry, we’ll just dry your hair,” Phil says. He rummages through a plastic bin beneath his bed and pulls out a hair dryer and a flat iron. “Here, why don’t you sit down here, and I’ll dry your hair while you pick out questions,” he adds, pointing to the floor near where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Um, okay,” I say, complying with his request. “Wait, why do I have to pick the questions?” That sounds more like Phil’s job. It’s his video after all.

“I want to be able to film my genuine reaction to them for the video,” he tells me. “And I thought it would be more fun to have someone else ask them. Would you be willing to look through my at-replies at pick some out?” he asks, passing me his Macbook.

“Sure,” I say. I grab a notebook and a pen from my backpack to start working on a list. “What sort of questions are you looking for?”

“Things that are a bit unusual or anything that you would find interesting, I guess. Oh, that reminds me!” Phil blurts out, reaching over to grab a sticky note from the top of his desk. “This was the question that gave me the idea to do this video in the first place,” he says, handing me the small square piece of paper.  _ Why do you always make cat whiskers on your face? _ it reads.

“Always?” I ask, wondering if I’m missing something. I remember seeing one or two videos where Phil drew whiskers on his face, but ‘always’ seems like quite an exaggeration.

“I know, that’s why it was so weird,” Phil says. “I thought we could give them some more cat whiskers, just to add to the conspiracy theories.” I copy the question down at the top of my list as Phil turns on the hair dryer. His fingers gently comb through my hair as he works, and I try to focus on my assigned task rather than the peculiar intimacy of his touch.

I scroll through what seems like an endless stream of responses. If Aubrey knew that Phil has this many twitter followers, she’d absolutely shit herself. His Youtube followers could easily multiply the radio show’s audience by tenfold, if only he would tell them that it exists. But that’s not likely to happen given how he insists on maintaining the anonymity on his online persona.

I continue building my list of questions, adding anything that I think might shock Phil or make him laugh. I’m not sure how many I’m supposed to prepare, so I end up filling the whole page with my messy script.

Phil clicks off the hair dryer and declares that he’s done the best he can. My hair is dry, but incredibly frizzy thanks to the humidity. “You should probably let me do this part,” I say, grabbing the flat iron and moving to sit next to him on the edge of the bed. Phil agrees, admitting that my hair did prove to be more difficult than he’d thought. He works on setting up the camera over buy the window while I use the webcam on his laptop as a mirror since he doesn’t have a real one.

I quickly learn that his flat iron is an absolute piece of shit, like the crappy GHD knock-offs that they sell at Poundland. It takes me forever to force my unruly hair into submission, but Phil doesn’t seem to mind. He asks me how my classes are going, and what classes I signed up to take next semester. I tell him that I’m taking several radio classes as well as the video production course that he recommended to me. He seems pleased by this, and tells me that that class helped him immensely with his Youtube channel.

“So why are you called Amazingphil?” I ask. “It sounds like the name of a magician or something.”

Phil laughs at my bad joke. “It wasn’t my first choice. But everyone’s subscription feed is sorted alphabetically, so it’s nice to be towards the top.”

I decide that my hair is as good as it’s going to get, so I join Phil on the floor in the narrow space between his bed and his desk. It’s probably not an ideal filming set up, but the layout of the room doesn’t leave us with any better options. The rain continues to pour down outside, but Phil’s supplemented the natural light that the window would normally provide with a bright ring light set up just behind the camera. I blink several times, trying to force my eyes to adjust to the brightness.

“Ready,” Phil asks me. I nod, and he hits the record button. “Ask away,” he prompts.

“What was your first word?” I ask, reading off of the sheet of paper that I ripped out of my notebook and then turning to look at Phil.

“Light,” Phil says, staring into the lens.

“Was it really?” I ask. I thought every kid’s first word was usually ‘mum’ or ‘dad’.

“Yeah, I was kind of a weird kid.”

“M’kay,” I mumble, figuring that I should move on to the next question.

“Light!” Phil repeats in a high-pitched, childlike voice.

“What was that for?”

“I dunno, I might edit that in somewhere, just to be interesting. I want to edit the questions together out of order to make it feel sort of jumpy.”

I’m not exactly sure what he means by that, so I move on, looking for another question. The one about the cat whiskers is next, but I decide to skip ahead, because that one feels too important somehow.

“If you had to lose your leg or your nose, what would you lose?” I read off.

“I’d lose my leg,” Phil says with a small laugh. “Imagine my face without a nose.”

“Voldemort has no nose,” I comment.

“I’d look like Voldemort,” Phil interjects.

“And Voldemort’s pretty fit, to be honest.” I regret the words even as they’re spilling out of my mouth, but there’s nothing I can do to take them back.

“I already look like Voldemort,” Phil adds.

“You sort of do,” I observe. I actually find Voldemort to be weirdly attractive, not that I’ll admit that to Phil. 

“Here, move closer to the camera for the next one,” Phil suggests. “I want to vary the shots a bit, so that it will be easy to tell that the questions are out of order once I edit it.”

I move in closer to him, our shoulders pressed together. “Why do you always make cat whiskers on your face?” I ask.

“Because I can,” Phil answers with a smirk. He reaches back and grabs a black sharpie from on top of his desk. “Can I draw whiskers on your face?” he asks me. I nod.

“So we’re doing this just to troll people?” I ask as he draws on my nose and cheeks. The sharpie ink is cold against my skin, and I try not to think about all of the toxins that I’m probably absorbing.

“Don’t talk; you’ll make your whiskers go all crooked,” he scolds me. “But yeah, basically.”

We end up giggling together after I see how ridiculous I look in the camera’s viewfinder. Phil offers the sharpie to me, and I draw on his whiskers in return.

I move to lay on Phil’s bed after the next few questions in an effort to keep things visually interesting.

“Can you say something in French?” I read off. I was curious about this one because I had no idea that Phil knew any French.

“Oh god, high school French class was so long ago,” he says. “Um... je mange les petits enfants.”

“You eat babies?”

“That’s probably too weird, isn't it? Ugh… Est-ce qu’il y a une salle de jeux? That’s the only thing I remember from French class.”

I eventually return to sitting on the floor next to Phil, before reaching one of the questions that I’m most interested in.

“Do you use an iron to straighten your hair?” Obviously I know that he does, but I want him to answer for owning such a shitty excuse for a flat iron.

“Yes,” Phil answers.

“No, okay, Phil uses these really crappy GHDs that don’t even work,” I say, pushing Phil out of the frame and moving closer to the lens. “Like, where are these even from, Walmart?” I ask Phil.

“Hey! They’re not  _ that  _ bad,” he says defensively.

“No, they're  _ awful. _ I have no idea how you live.”

Phil rolls his eyes at me, and then moves back into frame while I consult my notes, looking for the next question.

“What does a giraffe sound like?” I ask, to which Phil replies with a truly horrific screeching noise. “Every animal makes that noise with you,” I say, recalling his antics from Welcome Weekend and a few other occasions. “You sound more like a zebra than a giraffe.”

“That word sounds so funny when you say it.”

“What, zebra?”

“Zebra,” he repeats in his American accent with it’s harsh ‘e’ sound.

“Zebra,” I say, trying to mimic him, but sounding more like a valley girl than anything else.

Phil laughs, and I can only hope that the questions I’ve chosen are living up to his expectations.

“Would you eat ham every day for the rest of your life if you got payed a million dollars for every month you lived?” I ask. This was probably the strangest question that I came across in my search, so of course I had to include it.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Although, I’d probably die of ham poisoning.”

“Ham overload.”

“Ham overdose,” he says, which somehow devolves into us repeating the word ‘ham’ over and over again, as if we’ve just now noticed the differences in our accents.

A few questions later, I finally bring myself to ask, “Who was your first love?” I’m certainly curious to know the answer to this one.

But Phil simply stares into the camera and says, “Your mom.” I don’t know why I expected anything different.

“I’m out of questions,” I announce, having come to the end of the list. “Now what?” I ask.

“Now we say goodbye to the camera,” Phil says.

I hold up an ironic hand heart in front of my face, and Phil follows suit. He comments that it’s cheesy, but I tell him that it’s supposed to be. I sit back on my knees and wait for Phil to turn the camera off.

“This is the most fun I’ve ever had,” I say only half-sarcastically.

While I’m still finishing my sentence, Phil suddenly turns and lunges at me, pushing me backwards to the floor. I’m falling, and I don’t know why, just that he’s falling with me. That makes it okay somehow. My hand brushes against his waist, searching for something to cling onto. But then I remember that the camera is still rolling, and I quickly recoil from the temptation. I hit the ground with a thud, and Phil lands next to me, pressed against my side in the narrow space.

I laugh, trying to keep myself from overthinking whatever is actually happening. This is obviously just something funny for the video, though I don’t quite get the joke. I realize that my arm is pinned beneath him, and try to pull it free, but Phil’s not letting me. I turn my face toward him, and I see him gazing down at me, his eyes dripping with desire.

Butterflies fill my stomach. Phil’s hand travels from my shoulder to the base of my neck, his fingers finding their way into my hair once again. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. He leans into me, and my lips part ever so slightly in anticipation. He comes so close that our noses only just avoid brushing together.

And then he stops dead in his tracks. The tension boils. I feel cheated. Teased. Robbed of the kiss that I knew was coming. So I move to close the gap myself. But he recoils swiftly, violently even. He pulls away from me as he sits up, breaking the spell.

“Oh god, what am I doing?” he mutters, hiding his face in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have…” Shouldn’t have what? Tried to kiss him when he was already clearly going for that himself? He started this, and he’s the one in a relationship, not me. I have nothing to apologize for. But that’s certainly not going to make him feel any less guilty.

Phil reaches up and finally turns the camera off, probably feeling even more guilty that he inadvertently recorded what just happened.

“It’s not your fault,” he says. Good. I’m glad he knows that. “I just can’t do this to her.”

“If she didn’t exist, what would you have done?” I ask. No matter the outcome, I want him to admit that he wants me. I deserve at least that much.

“But she does. And she doesn’t deserve for me to hurt her like this.”

No, she probably doesn’t. But she also doesn’t deserve to be strung along. “Do you love her?” I press.

A long silence follows, but the look in Phil’s eyes tells me that even though he won’t admit it, the answer is no.

“I should probably go,” I offer.

“Yeah, you probably should,” Phil agrees. I collect my things, and prepare to leave him to sort out him moral dilemma. “Thanks for helping with the video,” he adds as I’m about to walk out the door.

“Any time,” I say, whole-heartedly hoping that this isn’t the end.


	14. Learning to be Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing this and every chapter of Tanoh so far. You're awesome!

On Thursday, my entire FYS heads over to Huxley South together about an hour before the start of our class. Despite Phil’s lessons on how to make the most of Hux South, I still eat at Huxley North most days. But today is a special exception. Huxley South’s annual Thanksgiving meal is renowned for being the best meal to be had on campus all year. Older students that live off campus and even faculty members are willing to pay actual money to eat at Hux South for the occasion.

“Isn’t Thanksgiving next Thursday? That’s why classes are canceled next Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, right?” I ask Tom while we’re in line.

“Yeah, but no one will be here then,” he says. Everyone seems to be headed home for the holiday. Even Tom is flying to California next Wednesday morning. I recall Phil telling me that he is spending the holiday with Caroline and her family. I assume that that is still his plan, though I’ve hardly spoken to him this past week. I can understand why. What do you say to a person that you very nearly kissed, and very much shouldn’t have? Hell if I know.

“I know, but why not do this next Tuesday or something? So that it would be closer to the actual holiday?”

“I don’t know, probably so people don’t get tired of turkey before the actual event.”

From what I’ve gathered, Thanksgiving mostly revolves around turkey, American football, and pumpkin pie. When we finally get to the front of the line, I’m offered turkey, gravy, and a plethora of carbohydrate-rich side dishes. It’s definitely a menu that I can get behind.

“Should we all say something we’re thankful for?” Laura suggests once we all cram around one of the large circular tables.

Alexis huffs. “Please, you’re not my grandmother, so you’re not going to make me come up with some bullshit answer for that.”

“Or make me say grace,” Aubrey adds.

“Hey, no one said anything about praying,” Laura retorts defensively.

A hush falls over the group as we abandon pleasant conversation in favor of nearly inhaling our food. The turkey is a bit dry, but the gravy more than makes up for it. The mashed potatoes are deliciously creamy, and are probably the best dish I’ve had from Huxley all semester.

“You’re going to do this week’s show, right?” Aubrey presumptively asks me when we’re almost done stuffing our faces.

“What do you mean?” I ask, not sure what she’s getting at. I plan to go and help out with my usual production duties, but I wouldn’t exactly call that “doing” the show.

“Phil hasn’t talked to you about filling in for Shane?”

I stare back at her blankly. No, he certainly hasn’t. Last Sunday’s show was awkward as hell, but Aubrey knows that. She was there in the studio relaying song requests submitted on twitter. Her campaign to promote the show online has really taken off.

“Has he even told you that Shane isn’t going to be there this week?”

“No, he hasn’t,” I answer. “What does Shane get a day off for?”

“Some student senate thing, I think. I can’t believe he hasn’t even mentioned it to you. When we talked about it a few weeks ago, Phil told me that he was sure he could convince you to fill in.”

“I guess he decided against it,” I say, brushing it off. But she’s right; it’s exactly the sort of thing that Phil would normally ask for my help with. Knowing that he’s chosen to ignore me instead stings.

“So he’s going to do the show by himself? It just doesn’t make any sense,” Aubrey continues, unwilling to let it go. “He knows how important it is for the show to have a comedic rapport between the two hosts. It’s central to my marketing strategy!”

“It’s only one week, Aubrey. I’m sure your marketing strategy will recover.”

“Yeah, probably.  But I’m more concerned about why Phil’s acting so weird all of a sudden.” She pauses, shuffling a few cranberries around her plate while lost in thought. Then she looks up again, an accusatory look on her face. “Is there something going on between the two of you? Did you get into a fight or something?”

“No,” I snap far too quickly. “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” I add. She squints her eyes at me, obviously not buying it.

“Right,” she says, drawing out the vowel. “I’m going to go get a piece of pumpkin pie. Do you want me to grab you one?

“No, thanks,” I reply. “Pudding with a vegetable in it just does not sound appetizing to me.”

“Wait, have you never had pumpkin pie before? Is it not a thing in the UK?”

“No, not really,” I admit. I should have left it at a simple ‘no’. Now I’m going to be forced to try it, of course.

“Does anyone else want me to grab them some pie?” Aubrey asks, addressing the rest of the table.

“I already got some,” Tom replies.

“I’ll take a piece!” Becca says eagerly. Jake, Kayla, and Alexis agree as well.

“I’ll help you carry them,” Alexis says, standing up from her seat.

“Jess, do you want some, too?” Aubrey asks before stepping away.

“No, thanks, I don’t want to get fat like some people,” she bites back, glaring across the table directly at Becca. I really don’t understand how those two are still friends. Alexis rolls her eyes as she and Aubrey walk away.

When they return, I’m not surprised when a piece of pie is placed on the table in front of me. “Just try it,” Alexis insists. “If you hate it, I’m sure someone else will finish it for you.”

I reluctantly take a bite of the orange goop. It’s really just custard with ginger and nutmeg put into a piecrust. I expected it to be stringy like other squash dishes I’ve had in the past, but instead, it’s smooth and sweet. The whipped cream topping is an added bonus.

“Okay, this is actually really good,” I concede. I end up eating the whole piece, and might have considered a second if we didn’t have to head off to class.

As we leave the dining hall and walk to Muscatine, my friends fall into a conversation about the final paper that we have to write for Professor Anderson’s class. I should probably also be worried about the assignment since it is worth a large portion of my course grade, but instead, I find my thoughts wandering back to Phil.

The wind has swept the fallen leaves onto my path, and they crunch under my feet. Most of the trees on campus have already shed their leaves, and now stand as spindly shadows on the horizon. There are a handful of small trees near Meriden that are still stubbornly clinging to their yellow and brown adornments, perhaps hoping for a last few days of warmth and sunlight that are unlikely to come before winter truly begins. If the air weren’t so dry, it could easily be snowing right now. But still, their leaves remain.

I am fully aware that these trees are fighting a hopeless battle, but the trees don’t know that. I wonder if I’m being equally stubborn about my chances with Phil. Maybe I’m clinging onto the hope of a breakup that isn’t coming. Sure, Phil’s attracted to me. I know that now. But maybe it’s idiotic of me to expect him to act on it.

If Phil were smart, he would put as much distance between us as possible. He would have nothing to do with me, even as a friend, so as to avoid the temptation of wanting something more. That’s probably why he hasn’t asked me about filling in for Shane on the radio show. Maybe he’s finally come to his senses and realized that being friends with me is a bad idea. I’m nothing but trouble, after all.  

But it shouldn’t have to be that way. I could learn to be his friend without the expectation of something more. I could show him that keeping me around is worthwhile. Maybe I just need to stop being so selfish. And that’s how, by Sunday afternoon, I’ve talked myself into co-hosting the show.

I get to Meriden about an hour early to make sure that I beat Phil there. He can’t turn me down if I’ve already done all of the set-up work for the show, can he? I swipe my student ID card, which unlocks the studio door, and get to work. 

I’m nervous about going on air, but my stubborn resolve pushes me through. I can do this with no other pretense than doing a favour for a friend. I can be good.

I can try.

Phil walks in about thirty minutes before the show is supposed to start, looking like he hasn’t slept in two days.

“Hey,” I say, because I don’t even think he’s noticed me.

“Dan? What are you doing here so early?” he asks, dropping his armful of notebooks and loose, slightly crumpled papers onto his side of the desk.

“Aubrey mentioned that you needed a co-host for today,” I explain, “So, I’m here to offer my services. Everything’s almost ready to go.” The equipment has been turned on, the mics have been tested, and the news and sponsor reads are printed out. See? I can be helpful.

Phil just stares at me wide-eyed. I can almost see some of the stress lift from his shoulders. “Really?” he breathes out. I nod.

Almost on cue, Aubrey walks in the door, probably saving me from an awkward conversation. “Hey guys,” she greets us. “Did you convince Dan to host after all?” she asks Phil, probably wondering why I’m sitting on Shane’s side of the desk.

“No, I guess you did?”

“Oh, cool,” she says like it hardly matters. She takes her usual seat on the couch and gets to work promoting the show on twitter and replying to the people who bother to show interest.

The minutes tick by, and I focus on all of the things that I need to not forget to do. The pool of anxiety grows in my stomach the closer we get to 8 o’clock. Phil seems happy to have my help, but he remains reserved. He doesn’t talk to me in the friendly way that he normally does. Eventually, the moment arrives. Phil pauses the playlist that occupied the web stream when the station is off the air and sets our mics to live.

“Hello everyone,” Phil begins, “I’m Phil, and you’re listening to the Sunday request show here on 96.1 The Duck. Shane was unable to join us this evening, so instead, back by popular demand, we have Dan filling in this week.”

“Hello, hello,” I say, trying not to let my nervousness affect my voice. “How are you all doing tonight? As Phil said, this is the request show, so feel free to give us a call at 271-double 1-double 9 and let us know what songs you’d like to hear us play. Or, if you’re too socially awkward for phone calls, or maybe you’re studying in the library right now, you can also tweet your requests to us using #MUradiorequests. We’d love to hear from you!”

“While we’re waiting for the requests to come in, and because it is still technically the weekend, let’s start things off with  _ Hymn for the Weekend _ by Coldplay,” Phil says.

I talk to a caller while the song plays and prep them to go on the air to give their request. After the first few callers, my nerves start to subside. I’ve managed to not say anything too awkward, and I’ve only hit the wrong button on the console once, which Phil quickly corrected.

We come to a lull in the show, about half an hour in, where we seem to have run out of callers for the moment. I introduce a song from a twitter request, and I actually catch Phil smiling after I play the song and mute our mics.

“You’re doing really well, Dan,” he says.

“Everyone on twitter agrees,” Aubrey says, passing me sticky note with the next twitter request written on it.

“Thanks,” I say sheepishly. “Do you want to read the news bulletin, or do you want me to?” I ask Phil.

“I can do it,” he offers.

“Okay,” I say, passing him the sheet of paper that I printed off before the show. “I also created our own sort of news bulletin with weird internet headlines that I found this weekend,” I add. “I thought maybe we could read those out too at some point.”

“You did what?” Phil asks with an amused laugh. He takes the second list and reads it over. “This is hilarious. Way better than the actual news, for sure. You should read these later,” he says, passing the paper back to me across the desk.

We’re required to read CCN’s official headlines at the bottom of every hour, but at 9 o’clock, I interject the boring cycle with what I’ve decided to call the internet news. “Tonight on the MU request show, we’re bringing you a selection of the internet’s greatest headlines and viral stories,” I begin. “First up, a woman took out a classified ad in a Pennsylvania newspaper, hoping to sell a cemetery plot for $200 so that she won’t have to spend all of eternity next to her ex.”

“Oh no!” Phil interjects. “Was she able to sell it?”

“I have no idea, sorry,” I admit. “You might like this story a bit better, Phil. Apparently a cat named Obiwan-Catobi was returned to his family after being found living in a construction site over 200 miles away from home.”

“Obiwan-Catobi? That’s wonderful,” Phil says with a smile.

“And finally, a casino in Connecticut is hosting its annual turkey eating contest on Thanksgiving Day in which the champion will win $10,000. So if anyone tries to criticize you for eating too much on Thanksgiving, just tell them that you’re training to make an investment in your future by claiming this prize.”

Phil declares this to be sound advice, and the story leads us directly into a discussion about my newfound appreciation of pumpkin pie and Thanksgiving foods in general. Phil asks our next caller what her favorite is, and they get into a brief argument about whether or not stuffing should be slightly crunchy. She requests  _ Can’t Feel My Face _ by The Weekend, and maintains that stuffing is best served completely soggy.

The topic of Thanksgiving dominates the second hour of the show, and Phil seems to have perked up considerably. We talk to a few more callers, and take several more song requests from twitter. The time goes by more quickly now that Phil is in a better mood.

We get down to only a few minutes of airtime left, but all of the requests have been played. “We’ve still got time for one more song, but no requests remaining,” I tell Phil and the audience. “So what should we play? Do you have a request, Phil?”

“Hmm, okay,” he says. “I’ll play the song that’s been stuck in my head all day. Maybe this will help get it out. Here's Muse with  _ Sing for Absolution.  _ Thanks for listening and requesting songs!”

Matt Bellamy’s majestic voice closes out the show, leaving me thinking back to why Phil may have had a song about guilt stuck in his head.

“That was a really great show you guys,” Aubrey tells us. “Everyone loved the internet news thing,” she adds.

“Yeah, that was really unique and interesting,” Phil says. “Thanks for your help today, Dan.”

“You’re welcome,” I reply. I hope that he really does appreciate my efforts to be genuinely helpful. 

Phil insists that I should get to leave early since I did almost all of the set up, but I can’t help but feel that I’m being kindly asked to leave. Maybe Phil still isn’t ready to be around me in a social capacity. 

“See? I told you,” I hear Aubrey say as the door swings closed. It slams closed before I get to hear what exactly she told him. Or maybe those two are up to something. 


	15. Something to be Thankful For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the first draft of this chapter on Thanksgiving Day 2015. True Story. 
> 
> Thanks to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing!

On Thursday morning, I finally pull down the piece of paper that’s been taped to the back of my door for more than a week.

_ All first year students planning to remain in the residence halls over Thanksgiving weekend must sign up to do so at their hall’s front desk. _

There are so few people staying that I guess they need to keep track of us one by one. Four people currently occupy Carpenter Hall: me, two Actuarial Science students from Malaysia, and Liz, the fourth floor RA.

_ Please note that Huxley South will be closed for the duration of the break, and that Huxley North will only be open from 12-1 PM on Thursday the 24 _ _ th _ _ in observance of the Thanksgiving holiday. _

How are we students supposed to observe the holiday if we’re not even allowed an evening meal? Don’t get me wrong; I’m glad that the people that work in the dining hall are getting most of the day off, but I’m also not looking forward to walking over to McDonald’s for dinner tonight. It’s not that I actually care about the holiday, of course, but it just seems sad somehow.

On my way back from the bathroom, I hear the sound of a TV reverberating through the hall. Since no one else is staying on my floor, my guess is that it’s coming from the lobby. I’ve got nothing to do all day, so I decide to investigate. I walk downstairs to the front desk and find a handwritten sign reading: The on-duty RA can be found in the lobby.

I walk over to the railing that overlooks the lobby and see two girls sitting on one of the couches. One of them I recognize as Liz, the purple-haired RA that supervises the fourth floor of Carpenter Hall, but I only know her from the poster with all of the RA’s faces on it in the laundry room. She turns her head at the sound of my approaching footsteps.

“Look, Melissa, another human! Hi, human!” she greets, waving at me from the floor below.

“Um, hi,” I return.

“You must be Dan,” Liz accurately concludes. “I’m Liz, and this is Melissa. She’s the first floor RA over in Harlan.” One of Phil’s coworkers, then.

“Hi,” Melissa says. “Are you going to come watch the parade with us?”

“Parade?” I ask, starting to walk down the stairs to the lobby anyway.

“Yeah, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade?” She seems confused by my lack of understanding for a moment, and then concludes, “They don’t do Thanksgiving where you’re from, do they?”

“No, we don't.”

“Yeah, Melissa, that’s where the pilgrims fled from in the first place.”

When I sit down and look up at the TV screen, I see an enormous balloon being guided between the New York City skyscrapers by a team of at least a dozen people holding onto it by an array of cables. “Is that a giant inflatable Hello Kitty?” I ask in disbelief.

“Yeah, you just missed the Pillsbury Dough Boy,” Melissa tells me.

“Oh look, here comes another marching band,” Liz points out. “Alright, what state is this one going to be from? Place your bets.”

“Their costumes look vaguely southwestern, so I’m going to say New Mexico,” Melissa declares.

“Oh, good call. Dan?”

“Um… California?”

“I’m going with Texas.”

The TV presenters introduce the band as being from Arlington, Texas. Liz cheers, and Melissa sighs and rolls her eyes. “Why is it always Texas?” she asks.

“Because it’s a big-ass state where lots of people live,” Liz responds.

“So is California!” Melissa argues.

“Fair point. It could have gone either way, probably.”

A Spiderman balloon follows the marching band. The hosts discuss the history of the balloon, including how many years it’s been in the parade. “Are all of the floats in this parade giant balloons?”

“Not all, but most of them, yes,” Melissa tells me.

The line of balloons, dignitaries in open cars, and high school marching bands continues, interrupted by frequent commercial breaks. It all concludes with a guy dressed as Santa Claus bringing up the rear on a small float modeled after Santa’s sleigh. He waves to the children in the crowd, and the presenters explain that Santa is here to close out the celebration of Thanksgiving and usher in the Christmas season.

“I can’t imagine waiting until the end of November to start preparing for Christmas,” I think aloud. Most people in England start decorating for Christmas and buying gifts right after bonfire night, if not earlier.

“Please, nobody actually waits until today,” Liz says. “Hell, the stores start putting out all of the Christmas crap even before Halloween sometimes. This just makes it socially acceptable to talk about it and for them to start playing Christmas music on the radio.”

“Oh, I see.” It’s just after noon, so I make an excuse about how I need to go get food while I have the chance.

“Oh, sure,” Liz says. “We’re making food for dinner for all of the RA’s and residents that are stuck here. You should come; it should be ready around 6.”

“Yeah, we’re trying this thing we found online where you make a complete Thanksgiving dinner in a crock pot,” Melissa adds. They explain how they’ve layered chunks of turkey breast with stuffing and potatoes to all cook together. Frankly, it sounds vile. But who am I to pass up free food?

“If it turns into a disaster, we can always order pizza,” Liz suggests.

And it sort of does.

I walk down to the Carpenter kitchen just after 6 to find Liz struggling to mash the potatoes that they’ve transferred to a mixing bowl. “This stupid fucking hand mixer is a piece of shit!” she exclaims.

“I think they maybe aren’t done enough,” Melissa says. “Oh, hey Dan,” she adds after she notices me lingering at the back of the room near the door. The kitchen is fairly small, so I don’t want to invade their space. The two crock pots filled with food take up almost all of the counter space between the appliances that I’d say were at least 15 years old if I had to guess. 

“Maybe you could microwave them?” I suggest. For all of this kitchen’s faults, it does have a microwave.

“Hey everyone, happy Thanksgiving!” greets a newcomer who introduces himself to me as Michael, an RA in Spencer Hall. He’s brought two of his residents who are hanging out in the lobby around the corner with Pryia and Nadia, the other two Carpenter residents that are here this weekend.

Liz continues to work on the potatoes, adding copious amounts of milk and butter in an effort to save them. “Food should be ready in a few minutes,” she tells us.

“So how does RA duty work if there’s only one of you here all weekend for each building?” I ask Melissa. Normally, one of the 5 RA’s in each hall is on duty at all times.

“It’s pretty relaxed since practically no one’s here. We basically just have to leave notice at the desk of where we are or our number to call if you need help. And we each take one overnight shift and cover all four buildings. Although, I actually don’t have to do my overnight shift tonight. Phil offered to take it since he ended up staying, too.”

Wait, what? 

“Phil’s here?” I ask in disbelief. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be spending the holiday with Caroline and her family, solidifying the idea that he’s part of her family.

“Yeah, I guess his plans fell through,” Melissa informs me. “I was kinda mad when he told me, since it was too late for me to buy a plane ticket home. But it was my turn to work this break....”

She keeps talking, but I’ve lost interest. His plans fell through? Does that mean what I think it means? Dare I hope?

As if on cue, Phil chooses that moment to walk through the door. To put it mildly, he looks like shit. He’s wearing track pants and his usual dark green Mallard hoodie. His hair is unkempt and there’s more than a 5 o’clock shadow’s worth of stubble on his chin. Either he’s ill, or he hasn’t slept properly in days.

“Hey guys,” he says in this incredibly sad voice.

Or maybe he’s depressed because he broke up with his girlfriend.

Kristina, the Creston RA, joins us shortly after, along with a few of her residents. Liz declares that she’s done the best she can with the potatoes, and invites everyone to eat. I strategically get in line behind Phil.

“I didn’t think you were going to be here this weekend,” I say.

“I didn’t think I’d be here either.” Phil seems gloomy and withdrawn. Normally, he’d be smiling and asking me how I am, what I’ve been up to the last few days. I have so many questions that I want to ask him. What happened? Did you break up with Caroline? Did you do it because of me? But I don’t want to press him, make him feel worse about whatever turn his relationship has taken.

We fill our paper plates with food and sit at one of the small tables in the lobby. I attempt to eat my turkey, but it’s pretty dry and chewy.  The gravy’s pretty good so it mostly makes up for it. “I never thought I’d say this, but I almost miss Huxley food,” I say, hoping to coax a smile out of Phil. Instead, he continues to shuffle the food around his plate with his plastic fork. I realize that there’s one question I really should ask. “Are you okay?”

Phil looks up at me. “Yeah,” he says, nodding like that will help convince me. “Yeah, I mean… No, not really.”

I eat a few bites of the lumpy mashed potatoes. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. Phil glances around the room, reminding me that we’re not alone. “Maybe we could go upstairs? Watch a movie or something?”

He perks up a bit at this suggestion. “I’ve got a few DVDs that we can pick from. We could watch something in my room.”

“Okay,” I agree. We discard what remains of our food, and Phil says a few quick goodbyes to his friends.

We cross the skywalk over into Harlan and walk down the hall to Phil’s room. It’s messier than the last time I was here. There are loose papers strewn across the desk and piles of clothes scattered around the room. He apologizes for the state of it, but I tell him that it doesn’t matter. He turns on the TV and pulls out a large black binder filled with probably over a hundred DVDs.

“Pick something out,” he tells me.

I flip through the pages, overwhelmed by the plethora of choices. “No, you should pick something. What are you in the mood for?”

His eyes pass over the last page of eight disks. “How about Wall-E?” he asks, removing the DVD from the plastic sleeve.

“Sure,” I say.

We sit on his bed, side by side, with our backs against the wall.

I wonder if this movie about a post-apocalyptic earth literally covered in garbage might make Phil more depressed, but he actually giggles when Wall-E can’t decide whether to put his new spork with the spoons or the forks. The same thing happens when the tiny robot plays with the fire extinguisher.

Wall-E meets Eve, and we watch as their adventures unfold. Eventually, our tiny, rusty hero gets himself into trouble, and things are looking rather bleak.

“Why are we watching this movie? It’s so sad!” Phil says.

“You’re the one who wanted to watch it, you spork,” I remind him, recalling the joke that made him laugh earlier.

“I wanted something without a love story,” he confesses. “But I forgot that these robots are sort of in love.”

“Are they?” I ask. “Love is just chemicals in your brain, right? Can robots be in love if they don’t have chemicals or brains? And why the fuck do they have to be gendered? They’re robots!”

He doesn’t answer me. The silence stretches on, and I drop the subject.

“I ended things with Caroline,” he says out of nowhere several minutes later.

“You did?” I ask, trying not to sound thrilled.

He nods. “We were having dinner on Monday. She kept talking about how Thanksgiving would be a good opportunity for me to talk to her dad. She never specifically said so, but I know that she was trying to hint that I should be asking for his permission to marry her.”

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“And it just hit me right then, you know? I suddenly realized that whether I’d intended to or not, I’d given her some very unrealistic expectations of where our relationship was going. And I just couldn’t do it anymore. I’ve been so afraid of hurting her, but I already was.”

“You guys wanted very different things. It was never going to end well,” I tell him. “You did the right thing.”

“Then why do I feel so awful?”

“Because you just ended a long-term relationship? I’d be more concerned if you didn’t feel awful.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve never done that before.”

Huh. I guess there are some things that I’m more experienced with than Phil. It’s only fitting that it’s something as depressing as heartbreak.

Phil shuffles closer to me then, and leans over to rest his head against my shoulder. “Thanks for listening, Dan.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. And we stay like that until the blob-shaped humans return to earth and commit to agriculture and sustainable living.

Phil sits up as the credits roll. He looks at me like he wants to say something, but remains silent.

“What is it?” I ask. “What are you thinking about?”

“Honestly?” he asks, looking me in the eye. “I’m thinking about how I really want to kiss you right now.”

His words ignite a fire within me. I will not let him rob me of this opportunity again. This time, I make the choice. I lean forward and crash our lips together. A jolt of electricity surges through my entire body. His stubble scratches against my chin.

I pull back ever so slightly to assess the damage I’ve done. He could be angry. Maybe he wasn’t ready. But his lips hover near mine, searching for a better angle where the puzzle pieces fit together. He kisses me, and it’s gentler this time. Lingering. Exploring. His hand is on my hip, pulling me closer. My fingers find his hair. My heart pounds faster and faster. Excitement courses through my veins, and I hope to god he feels this, too. The way that his tongue finds its way through my somewhat parted lips suggests that he does.

Our tongues move together, and I moan against his lips. I start to wonder when he’s going to push me down onto the mattress, take this further. But instead, he pulls away, a string of saliva briefly connecting our mouths.

“I need to head downstairs soon,” he says. “I told Melissa I’d take her night shift.

“Do you want me to keep you company?” I ask.

“No,” he says, crushing me fantasies of staying up all night talking, just the two of us, and maybe falling into bed together in the morning. “I think I need to spend some time alone. I need to think things over, figure a few things out.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say. He just broke up with his girlfriend, and here he is snogging someone else just a few days later. Of course he’s confused. Of course he needs to think things over. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Even if you just want to talk,” I offer.

He nods.

I find the courage to walk away, knowing that he just needs time. I can give him that.

 

 


	16. You Say Fries, I Say Chips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing.

The memory of kissing Phil is what carries me through the week. It fills my thoughts when I’m daydreaming during lectures. I fantasize about it when I jerk off in the shower, biting my lip to stifle a moan in case someone has walked into the bathroom without me hearing the door. It inspires my dreams, where it grows into a more complete scenario that I never want to wake up from. Infatuation is a powerful drug.

A week goes by, and I hear nothing from Phil. It’s not that surprising, considering how busy everyone’s been with final exams coming up. But as the days go by, I start to worry. Phil said that he needs time to think, but how much time before he starts to second-guess the choices that he made? Maybe I need to make up some excuse to see him, convince him that he did the right thing.

As it turns out, he saves me the trouble.

On Friday morning, he sends me a message and asks if I’d have time to have lunch with him. I tell him yes, and struggle to think about anything else for the remainder of Psych.

“I heard about a party going on tonight, you wanna come with?” Tom asks me as we’re walking back after class.

“Um, I don’t really know what I’ll be up to later, but I’ll let you know,” I say, flashing him a smile.

Tom wrinkles his eyebrows in confusion. “What are you so happy about?”

“Nothing,” I answer, shaking my head, still smiling. I watch as my breath condenses in front of my face in the cold air. “I’m having lunch with Phil later,” I mention before thinking better of it.

“Oh, for your individual PMAC consult?” Tom asks.

“My what?”

“Phil has to meet with us all individually and submit some report about how we’ve developed since the semester started. Evaluate our goals, stuff like that,” Tom explains. “Mine was last Monday.”

“Oh, right.” Is that all this is? Is Phil only seeing me in order to complete some paperwork?

I try to reign in my optimism until it’s time to go meet Phil. But this could still be something more. Phil could want to see me for other reasons. Who’s to say that Phil can’t be multitasking with our lunch date? Who’s to say that this isn’t still a date?

When I walk in the door of Huxley, Phil is already waiting for me. He looks much more put together than the last time I saw him. “It’s fucking freezing outside,” I say, my teeth chattering. The temperature seems to have dropped since this morning.

“Well, it is December,” Phil reminds me. It’s hard for me to believe that it’s almost the end of the semester. In just two weeks time, finals will be over, and I’ll be on a plane back home for the five-week winter break. “I’m a little surprised that it hasn’t snowed yet. I hope it snows at least once before break.”

“So that it will feel like Christmas?” I ask, taking a guess.

“Yeah. It never snows in Florida. No white Christmases for me, but I usually get a fix of snow here before I go home.”

“Well, with as cold as it is, you should be getting some soon.”

“I hope so.”

Phil begins walking toward Huxley North, my preferred campus-eating establishment. I follow his lead, wondering if he remembers, if he made that choice on purpose. He orders a burrito, and I order a chicken wrap and chips. I remember to call them fries this time for the benefit of the American behind the counter. Phil’s food is done first, and he chooses a table for us by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the quad of freshmen dorms.

“So how are your classes going?” Phil asks me once I join him.

“Fine,” I say, hoping that we can move on to a more interesting topic.

“What about your final paper for FYS?” he asks. “Dr. Anderson says that you have a lot of potential, but that you don’t really seem to be applying yourself.”

“I just have to pass the class in order for the credits to transfer.”

“So you’re going to continue on at Manchester Uni, then?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know,” I say. I still haven’t really thought about that much. “Why do I feel like I’m being interrogated here?” 

“I’m supposed to talk about these things with all of my FYS students,” Phil tells me.

“Right, and we’re having this conversation simply because I’m one of your FYS students.”

“What classes are you taking next semester?” Phil asks, avoiding eye contact and avoiding my subtext at the same time.  

“Well, I actually signed up for a few radio production classes, believe it or not. And that video editing class that you recommended to me as well.”

“So you’ve really found something that you enjoy learning about, then?”

“Yeah, thanks to you.”

“Have you thought about declaring a Media Studies major? Does Manchester have a program?”

“I’m not sure,” I admit.

“You should look into that.” Phil steals a chip from my basket of food.

“Right. I’ve just been a bit distracted lately, you see,” I say with a suggestive smile.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Phil returns. “You need to be thinking about your future a bit more seriously, you know.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t sound good? I’m talking about you! You’re the distraction,” I remind him lightheartedly.

“I know, and it’s not good,” Phil says, remaining stoic.

“What do you mean, it’s not good?” I ask. “What about you? Do you have definitive life plans after next May?” I know damn well that he doesn’t, so why is he being such a hypocrite?

“This isn’t about me, it’s about you. I’m your PMAC; it’s my job to make sure that you’re doing well and to give you advice.”

“No, this is about us. Are we seriously not even going to talk about us?” I ask. “I mean, I know that you just got out of a relationship, but –”

“But nothing.” Phil’s expression grows more serious, defiant even. “There is no ‘us’,” he says. “There can’t be.”

Just like that, everything I thought I knew just minutes ago come crumbling down. “What?” I breathe out. This can’t be happening. “Why not?” I demand.

“For many different reasons,” he says, stealing another one of my chips. Phil is a living, breathing contradiction. Hear he sits, telling me that we cannot be a couple, yet eating my food without even asking. He’s probably the only person on this side of the Atlantic that could get away with it, too.

What kind of bullshit answer is that? The way I see it, it’s pretty simple. “I’m attracted you to you. Are you attracted to me?”

“Yes,” he whispers. I take a moment to let that truth settle in.

“So then what are you stalling for?” I demand.

“It’s not that simple, Dan,” he declares. “I’m your PMAC.”

“Only for a few more weeks,” I point out.

“Yes, but I’m also an RA.”

“Not in my building.”

“No, but it would still be improper for me to be involved with a first year student. If anyone were to find out, I could lose my job.”

“Who says anyone has to find out?” I ask.

“God, you’re so naïve,” Phil mutters, burying his face in his hands.

“I can keep a secret, and I certainly know that you can, too,” I say, thinking of all of the secrets that he managed to keep from me for so long. Hell, he’s probably still keeping secrets from me.

“That would never work, and you know it,” Phil says. “People would find out eventually. I could be expelled for what I’ve already done.”

“For kissing me, you mean?”

Phil’s eyes widen with panic. He looks around to see if anyone around us seems to have heard what I just said. “Keep your voice down!”

There’s a sour taste in my mouth. “I don’t understand you!” I shout in frustration. “After everything that’s happened, you’re just going to pretend that there’s nothing between us? I mean, fuck, you broke up with Caroline –”

“I did not break up with her for you!” Phil shouts back, cutting me off. “Maybe you’re arrogant enough to believe that I did, or that doing it for you would have been justifiable, even. I’m sorry, but that’s just not true.”

His words bite at me like snakes. Anger boils inside of me, spilling over. “You keep telling yourself that,” I say, biting back.  

“Dan, I'm sorry that I’ve put you in this position. I should not have let things go as far as they did. I know that I gave you false hope, and I’m sorry.” As if enough apologizing will simply make it okay.

He’ll take my affection, but only when it’s convenient for him. Only on the days when it doesn’t conflict with his morals. I stand up swiftly and walk away, leaving my uneaten chips behind.

He can have those, too.

I walk around campus aimlessly for I don’t know how long, numb to the cold, filled with bitterness. I try to process what the hell just happened, but I come up with more questions than answers. What I do know it this: I hate him. I hate that he thinks that he’s superior somehow, that he gets to just make this decision for us. Most of all, I hate that he thinks that he’s doing the right thing.

At some point, I come to my senses and return to Carpenter.

“Dan, is that you?” Aubrey’s voice calls from the room next door as I’m slotting my key into the lock.

“Yeah,” I answer.

She pokes her head out of her doorway. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Um, sure.” I could use the distraction. Besides, she probably just wants to ask me something about an FYS assignment.

“Great! Step into my office,” she says, retreating into her room.

I’ve never been in Aubrey and Grace’s room, but it’s pretty much the same as every other room on this floor. Both beds are lofted, and Aubrey’s deck is underneath the one on the left. Grace is sat on her bed with headphones on, working on something on her laptop.

“Hey Dan,” Grace says, waving at me.

“Hey,” I respond.

“Have a seat,” Aubrey says, motioning to the black chair next to her desk. So maybe this isn’t some quick question about class.

“What’s up?” I ask, wondering what exactly she’s up to now.

“Did you submit a pitch for a radio show for next semester?” she asks.

“No,” I answer. Crap, those were due on the 1 st , weren’t they? That was yesterday. The chances of being given my own show as a freshman were slim anyway, but I was planning to apply. “No, I forgot all about that.”

“Good,” Aubrey says.

“Good?”

“This way, they won’t have to pick between your idea and mine.”

“You submitted a pitch? Since when do you want to DJ a show?”

“I don’t. I want to produce a show,” she clarifies. “A show hosted by you and Phil.”

Fuck, being forced to spend even more time together is the last thing we need. “That’s not a good idea,” I tell her.

“What are you talking about? It’s brilliant! The show you two hosted together back in November was one of the most listened to programs that the station has had in years! The station director told me so herself! There’s no reason not to give you a timeslot.”

“It’s just that, well, it would be… complicated.” The understatement of the century.

“Complicated? Don’t tell me that you’re worried about Shane. He’s dead weight and you know it. Plus, he already wants out! This is a no-brainer.”

“I'm not so sure,” I persist.

“Why not? What’s the problem? If it’s not Shane, then… Wait, is something still up with you and Phil?” She looks confused. “I don’t get it; Tom said that you were excited about having lunch with him today.”

“Look, there’s a lot that you don’t know about Phil.”

She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re probably right. I never thought he’d break up with Caroline, that’s for sure.”

I wonder how she even knows about that, but then I catch a glimpse of the decorative Greek letters on her windowsill. She and Caroline are sorority sisters.

“How is Caroline?” I ask, wondering if she still feels as shitty as I feel right now.

“She was shocked at first. We all were,” Aubrey says. “But I think she’s come to terms with it. She said that he had grown distant this semester, that she really should have seen it coming. She’s doing really well, all things considered. She even made a huge batch of cookies and brought them to our last chapter meeting.”

“That’s good.” How very much like Caroline to bake some cookies and move on with her life like an adult.

Aubrey nods. She pauses for a moment, and then says, “Look, whatever’s going on between you and Phil, whatever it is that I don’t know, find a way to fix it. Please?”

If only it were that simple. 

 

 


	17. The Solution to All of Life’s Problems (Cheesecake)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: There will be a chapter next Sunday, and then we'll be taking a bit of a break for the holidays. There will be one chapter that goes up sometime between Christmas and New Year's, and then regular Sunday chapters will restart on January 22nd. 
> 
> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

Phil’s wish for snow is finally granted the weekend before final exams begin. Most of the students in the dorms were probably fast asleep when the flakes started falling in the early hours of Sunday morning, but I was still awake. I watch the first flurries fly outside of my window, my thoughts swirling in a similar fashion.

Sleep must have come eventually. I wake up to bright, mid-morning sunshine pouring through the window, amplified by its reflection off of the shimmering white blanket, now covering the ground. Unlike me, my classmates are surprised to see the snow. I hear Aubrey knock on Tom and Jake’s door across the hall from me, excited to tell her boyfriend about the winter wonderland that’s suddenly appeared overnight.

Jake’s not impressed, as there was already far more snow on the ground when he went home to northern Minnesota for Thanksgiving. Tom, on the other hand, is as giddy as a child on Christmas morning. He says that this is the first snow that he’s seen in eight years.

Phil’s probably just as happy - not that I care.

A handful of students have abandoned their studies in favor of playing in the snow. They lob snowballs at one another, and a few have started sledding down the hill outside of my window, riding on dining trays stolen from Huxley.

Final exams begin tomorrow morning, so I imagine that most of us will spend today revising. That’s certainly what I need to do. But first, I need coffee. I place my laptop, my notes, and a few snacks into my backpack, intending to head straight to the library after my errand. Then, I put on my coat and head outside. A day like this calls for an extra shot of espresso, copious amounts of sugary flavoring, whipped cream, and a brand-name price tag. Tom’s right; some situations truly call for actual Starbucks.

The snow crunches softly beneath my feet, and I nearly lose my footing a few times while crossing the Carpenter bridge. The pavements have all been salted, though, so I don't have any trouble walking the rest of the way across campus. I wait at the streetlight to cross 30th Street, where the traffic is moving just fine despite the sudden arrival of winter. 

The Starbucks is located on the first floor of the apartment building across the street from Spencer Hall. I can see from the window decorations alone that the place is bursting with Christmas. Inside, the warmth and the smell of coffee are inviting. This place is a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal library where I'll be studying for most of the day. I consider ordering a Peppermint Mocha or one of the other Christmas drinks, but decide against it. I can't let myself feel too festive when I still have final exams to contend with. Instead, I order my usual: a Caramel Macchiato. 

The girls that were in line ahead of me crowd around the end of the bar waiting for their drinks, so I patiently stand back and wait my turn. Once they leave, I step forward and catch my first glimpse of the barista who is making the drinks. He has dark blond hair and honey-coloured eyes that look familiar to me, but I can't quite place him. 

“Dan?” he asks. “Hi, how are you?” His voice is soft and high-pitched. He's the guy from the Frat party all those months ago, the one that I got punched for kissing. And clearly he recognizes me, too. 

“Adam,” I say, reading his nametag. “I'm good, how are you?” I ask. 

“Good,” he says. “What are you up to today? Studying?”

“Yeah, studying.” I answer. 

“Hey, I’m sorry about what happened before,” he tells me.  

“That's okay, it wasn't your fault,” I say.

“Well, you look good, so I guess there wasn't any permanent damage. But still, I feel really bad about the whole thing. Would you let me take you out to dinner sometime to make up for it?” 

He places my drink on the counter and I pick it up. There’s a phone number scribbled on the side in Sharpie. “I appreciate the sentiment, but that's really not necessary,” I say.

“Oh, are you seeing someone?” he asks. 

“No, not exactly.”

“But there is someone?”

I look down at the floor and try not to blush. He may not want anything to do with me, but he’s still my ‘someone’. “It's complicated,” I answer. 

“Is he stuck in the closet or something?” Adam asks.

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Well, if that doesn't work out, call me,” He says with a suggestive smile. 

“Thanks for the drink,” I reply, not wanting to give him any ideas. 

“It was good to see you, Dan. I'm glad you're okay,” he says as I walk away. 

“Good to see you, too,” I return, just to be polite. I step back outside into the cold, thankful at least for the warm drink in my hand. 

The library is already packed when I arrive. I wander around the main floor for a few minutes looking for an open table. Eventually, I spot Alexis and Kayla, and ask if I can join them. 

“Sure, as long as you don't mind us quizzing each other about chem and bio,”  Alexis says,  consolidating the piles of her colorful, handwritten notes to make room for me. 

“Look, Dan brought Starbucks,” Kayla says, eyeing my cup with jealous eyes. “I need more coffee,” she says. 

“Maybe after we finish going over chapter 12,” Alexis concedes. 

“And there’s a phone number written on it! Did the barista give you her phone number? Is she cute? Are you gonna call her?” 

“Probably not,” I answer honestly. 

“Why not?” she asks. “I mean, I guess girls probably give you their phone numbers all of the time, don’t they?” 

“Kayla, focus!” Alexis chastises. “We have a comprehensive chemistry final in less than 48 hours, remember?” 

“I know, I know,” Kayla says. “Give me another Lewis structure to draw, then.”

“Phosphate,” Alexis tells her. 

I put in my headphones, and try to tune them out with music. I need to focus. I have three exams this week and two papers to write. My Psych final should be fairly straightforward, as should my exam for Gender Studies. The paper for my Mass Media class is mostly finished, so what I really need to be focusing on today is American History and the paper for FYS. 

I’m not really sure what to say about the War of the Roses cycle, as a whole. It seems to argue that rule by divine providence is just a myth, and that a bloodbath is just a bloodbath, even if it’s also a power struggle. It’s not that everything happens for a reason; it’s the choices we make. But I’m not sure if that’s a good enough argument for Professor Anderson. 

Tom and Aubrey join our table some time later. 

“Hey, what are you working on?” Tom asks me. 

“FYS paper,” I say. “But I’m not making much progress.” 

“Oh, I haven’t even started that yet,” he admits. “Aubrey’s already done with hers, of course.”

“Ugh, I hate you,” I tell her. “What did you write about?” 

“My thesis was about how Shakespeare’s writing was more of a reflection on the time in which he lived, rather than the time he was writing about. I compared his plays to the musical  _ Hamilton _ , and how it speaks more to our current culture than to that of the Founding Fathers.” 

“Damn, that’s good,” Kayla comments. 

“Thanks. I mean, it’s kind of risky, since I don’t know how Anderson feels about any of that.” 

“I think she’ll appreciate the originality,” Alexis offers. 

“Anyway, do you want to study for Psych?” Tom asks me. That is my first exam tomorrow, so it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea. It’s not like I’m making much headway with my paper, anyway. 

“Sure,” I say. 

A few hours pass sluggishly by, but we press on, fueled by the knowledge that in just a few days, this will all be over. We decide to all chip in and order a pizza for dinner, and Tom volunteers to walk over and pick it up. 

“Hey, Dan, what’s your twitter handle?” Aubrey asks me out of the blue once he’s gone.

“Why?” I ask, not exactly willing to reveal the random account name that I created when I was 12.

“I’m working on promos for the radio show for next semester,” she tells me.

“Seriously? Finals start tomorrow, and you’re sitting here working on promotions for a radio show that doesn’t even exist yet?”

“I’m taking a study break,” Aubrey says as justification. “And besides, my first final isn’t until Tuesday afternoon.”

“Lucky you. We have Bio at 7:30 in the morning,” Alexis tells us, motioning between herself and Kayla. The final exam schedule is rather ridiculous. Why we can’t just take our exams when the class normally meets, I don’t understand. 

“So what’s your twitter handle?” Aubrey persists.

“It’s ‘danisnotonfire’, all one word,” I tell her. “But you’re not going to find any eager new listeners from my maybe four dozen or so followers. It’s just not possible.”

“You don’t know that. If this year has taught me anything, it’s that you should never say never. The Cubs won the World Series; anything is possible.”

“Whatever. Wouldn’t it be more useful to pander to Phil’s twitter audience?” 

“Phil doesn’t have a twitter account.” 

Liar. Not that I’m surprised. 

“You’re coming to help with the show tonight, right?” Aubrey asks me. I skipped last week, unable to face Phil so soon after what happened. 

“Yeah, of course,” I tell her, though I haven’t actually made up my mind yet. I know that I’m not going to be able to keep revising all night anyway, so I don’t really have a good reason not to go. But still, I’m not sure that I’m ready to see Phil just yet. I told myself that I needed to focus on my finals, that I would think about Phil after this week is over. I’ll have five weeks before the start of the next semester to process things. I’ll worry about it then. 

After Tom returns, we eat our pizza and try our best to get back to work. Tom quizzes me about operant conditioning, and Kayla and Alexis move on to reviewing their biology notes.

“You know what we need?” Alexis asks. No one seems to have the answer. “Cheesecake!” she declares. “It’s the answer to all of life’s problems.” 

“Cheesecake?” Kayla repeats.

“We’ve been studying all day,” Alexis recounts. “We’ve probably absorbed all of the information that we possible can. I think we’ve earned a break. Otherwise, our brains might start melting.”

“You’re probably right,” Aubrey says. “But where are we going to get cheesecake on a Sunday night?”

“There’s this restaurant downtown that I’ve heard has really good cheesecake. We could go, I could drive us there,” Alexis offers.

“I’m always down for cheesecake,” says Kayla.

“Same,” Tom agrees. 

“Let’s do it,” I add.

Aubrey looks at me with wide eyes. “Dan, the radio show starts in like 45 minutes,” she reminds me. “I don’t think you’ll be back in time, do you?”

“You know what? Fuck the radio show,” I tell her. “I want cheesecake.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s the last show of the semester; you can’t miss it! Not when you skipped last week, too!”

“I can do whatever I want, and so can you. You don’t have to go and sit there every week, you know.”

“Phil said –”

“You really shouldn’t believe everything that Phil tells you. Like what he said about twitter, for example?”

“What do you mean? He does have an account?”

“Oh yes, he most certainly does. And over a hundred thousand followers, too.”

She stares at me blankly, astonished. “Why would he lie about that?”

“Look, if you’re serious about your twitter promotions, maybe you should google ‘amazingphil’. Just a suggestion.”

I turn away and walk quickly to catch up to the others. I throw away my coffee cup on my way out the door. Outside, the winter wind whips traces of the fallen snow back into the air, stinging my cheek. I should probably feel guilty about sharing Phil’s secret, but I don’t. I don’t owe him anything. But still, he trusted me, and I betrayed that trust. Serves him right. 

Back at Carpenter, we check to see if any of our other classmates feel like joining us on our cheesecake escapade. Sarah and Laura decide to come along. 

We pile into Alexis’ SUV, which luckily has enough room for all of us. This time, I’m granted the honor of sitting in the passenger seat on account of my freakishly long legs. 

The restaurant turns out to be a bit more posh than we’d anticipated, and I feel horrifically underdressed in my black jeans and my jumper that’s seen better days. But the restaurant isn’t busy, so they seat us anyway. 

“I’ll be so glad when this week is over,” Alexis says. She’s stressed about her exams, but we all know that she’ll ace them with ease like she always does.

“Yeah, it’ll be nice to go home,” Sarah says. “I’m excited to bake Christmas cookies with my mom and my sister.”

“What about you, Dan? I bet you’re excited to go home. You haven’t been back at all during the semester, right?” Kayla asks me.

“No, I haven’t,” I answer. Am I really excited to be going home, or is it just that I’m relieved to be getting away from here? “Is it bad if I’m mostly just excited to see my dog?”

Everyone giggles like it’s a joke, but it’s really not. No, I’m not at all looking forward to the endless stream of questions about my time here, or my nagging relatives asking if I’ve decided what to do with my life on Christmas Day. Maybe I am looking forward to playing video games for at least three weeks straight after the holidays are over, but that will inevitably be coupled with my dad wondering why I’m being so lazy and when I'm going to go back to school. At least the dog doesn’t care about those things.

The waitress returns with a tray full of deserts. Almost everyone ordered cheesecake, though a few people did go for the mixed berry crumble. The plate that is placed in front of me is simple, yet elegant at the same time: just a piece of plain cheesecake with a raspberry drizzle. I take a bite, and the taste is simply orgasmic. It’s rich and velvety with the perfect sort of buttery crust. I suppose it’s a nice reminder that there are purely good things that exist in this world.

“You guys, this may be the best idea I’ve ever had,” Alexis says. 

I have to agree. This isn’t just cheesecake; it’s hope. I’ve made it this far, so I can make it through this week. In only four days, I’ll get on a plane and go home for five weeks. I just need to survive until then.


	18. A Place Called Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're getting this chapter a bit early today because, like Dan, I'm on my way to the airport to fly "home" for Christmas. Reminder that chapter 19 will be posted sometime between Christmas and New Year's, and that regular chapters will resume January 22nd. Happy Holidays everyone! 
> 
> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). Thanks!

The shrill, rhythmic tone of my alarm wakes me up far earlier than I would like on Thursday morning. I groan and resist the temptation to crawl deeper into the warmth of my bed and ignore the sound. I wouldn’t put it past Nate to throw something at me if I tried. His last final isn’t until this afternoon, so I’m sure that he would like to go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury. I have a plane to catch, and a paper to turn in before I can do that. I detach myself from my bed, walk over to my desk, and turn off the alarm on my phone.

I read though my FYS paper one final time, hoping to catch a typo or find some other small error that I can easily correct. My argument isn’t as solid as it could be, and I could probably do with more supporting evidence from the text. But it’s too late for all of that now. It’s time to turn it in and put an end to this semester.

I eat the last granola bar that I had stashed away while I walk to the library. All of my other professors here have allowed us to turn our assignments in electronically, but not Anderson. No, she requires hard copies for everything, even the final paper, which must be turned in to her mailbox outside her office by 4:30 PM tomorrow. Mum insisted that I book my flight today since it was cheaper than flying on a Friday, so my paper is effectively due now.

The snow from last weekend has completely melted, but the bitterly cold wind has stuck around. I pass a handful of students who are probably on their way to an exam, as well as one of the campus squirrels foraging in the dead grass. I haven’t seen any of them in the last few weeks, so I’d assumed that they were all hibernating for the winter or something. I guess the wind hasn’t driven them all away just yet.

Colfax Library is open 24 hours a day during finals week, and some of the students that I pass by on my way to the printers look like they’ve been here all night. I’ve yet to have a test or assignment that called for pulling an all-nighter, but maybe that’s because I’m only taking intro-level classes. Or, maybe it’s just that I don’t care enough. That’s also a distinct possibility.

I print my paper, staple the pages together, and stick in it a folder to protect it from the wind. Dr. Anderson’s office is located in Hudson Hall, which is literally at the complete opposite end of campus from my dorm. It makes a nice excuse for why I hardly ever go to her office hours. I climb the three flights of stairs to the English wing, the ancient wooden steps creaking beneath my feet.

I spot Professor Anderson’s office on the left side of the hallway. Her door is open. She’s already here working at a quarter to 8 in the morning? I quickly step past to get to the plastic bin hung on the wall where I’m meant to deposit my assignment.

“Is that you, Dan?” she calls from inside.

Fuck.

“Yes, hello, Dr. Anderson,” I reply, stepping into the doorway. She’s the sort of professor that prefers to be called “doctor” rather than “professor” to her face. I think it makes her feel more important.

“Good morning,” she says. “Did you have a question for me?”

“No ma’am, I’m here to turn in my paper,” I explain.

“Oh, you’re turning this one in early?” She’s surprised, but I don't blame her. I’ve given her no reason to think that I’m the sort of student who finishes things ahead of the deadline.

“Well, I’m sort of on my way to the airport this morning.”

“Ah, I see. Headed home, then?”

“Yes, I am,” I tell her.

“You haven’t been back since the start of the semester, correct?” I nod. “You must be so excited to see your family again.”

I flash her a noncommittal smile. “Would you like my paper in your mailbox, or on your desk?” I ask, hoping to draw the conversation to a close.

She extends her hand into the air, and I pass the paper directly to her.

“I look forward to reading it.” I very much doubt that, but I bite my tongue. “Will you be returning to Mallard next term?” she asks.

Her question strikes me as odd, though I’m not sure why. I suppose that some foreign students must only come here for one semester. It occurs to me for the first time that I don’t have to come back in the spring.

“I’m planning to,” I reply, intentionally keeping my answer vague.

“I’m glad to hear that. Your writing has improved substantially,” she says. Has it? Or have I just been putting more effort into my papers? I guess from her perspective, that’s the same thing, really.

“Thank you,” I say. “Happy Holidays,” I add, backing out of the small room.

“Happy Holidays,” she returns.

And just like that, it’s over. I’ve turned in my final assignment. Everything on my to-do list is actually done.

I feel this incredible sense of weightlessness wash over me as I step back outside. It’s as if my responsibilities have literally been lifted from my shoulders. I walk back to Carpenter feeling free. No more exams, no more papers to write. I could leave this place and never come back if I don’t want to. No one can make me. I’ll process that idea once this day is over and I’ve had a chance to clear my head. Right now, I need to go back to my room and finish packing my things. I need to go to the airport. I need to go home. I tell myself that everything will make more sense once I’m back home. 

Nate is gone when I get back to our room, probably having gone to Huxley for breakfast. That’s good. No need for an awkward goodbye.

I packed most of my things yesterday morning while I was avoiding finishing my paper. Leave it to me to be productive as a form of procrastination. I gather a few last minute items and add them to my suitcase. I pack all of my electronics into my backpack along with all of their accessory cables and chargers. I leave my power adapters, since it’s not like I’ll need those back in England. I double-check that my passport is in the front pocket.

There’s nothing left to do but leave.

I lock the door behind me. If Nate forgot to take his key, again, that’s his problem.

My quick, painless getaway is swiftly derailed when I turn to head down the hall. Phil’s just stepped out of the stairwell and is walking straight toward me. I try my best to ignore the way that my heart rate increases like it always does whenever I see him.

“Dan!” he calls. “Hi.” He now stands mere inches away from me, invading my personal space like it’s no big deal.

“What are you doing over here?” I ask. Has it ever occurred to him that maybe he should stay over in Harlan where he belongs?

“What? Can’t I come check on my FYS students?” He’s smiling at me, trying to be amusing.

“I’m not one of those anymore,” I tell him. “I handed my paper in this morning.”

“Oh, I see,” he says. “So you survived your first semester of university. How does it feel?”

“Good. Strange, but good,” I answer.

“Yeah. After finals, it always takes me a few days to adjust to the sudden lack of stress and responsibility.”

“Right. So what are you doing here?” I repeat.

“Aubrey said that you were headed home this morning,” he says. Fucking Aubrey.

“I’m so glad that you have Aubrey to spy on me for you.”

“Hey, don’t be like that,” he orders, as if he has the right. “I wanted to talk to you about something before you go.”

My mind spins, searching for what he could possibly be referring to. I doubt that Aubrey’s said anything about his hundreds of thousands of secret twitter followers. If she had, there’s no way that he would be this friendly about it. For a split second, I allow myself to imagine that he’s changed his mind about us, that he’s working up the courage to kiss me and apologize for being such a dick. But no. Whatever he wants to talk about will pale in comparison to that illusion. It will be less of a disappointment if I don’t give him the opportunity to obliterate my hopes in the first place.

“I have to go, Phil. If I miss this plane, I’ll probably have to wait until tomorrow before there’s another.”

“Let me give you a ride,” Phil offers. “We could talk on the way.”

I shake my head. “I’ve already got an Uber waiting for me downstairs.” I brush past him, dragging my suitcase behind me.

“Ok, well, Merry Christmas, Dan,” he says, his eyes full of disappointment. I try my best not to care. “I’ll see you next year.”

“Merry Christmas, Phil,” I return. I turn away, and I don’t look back.

My experience at the Des Moines airport turns out to be relatively painless. The line to check my bag is blessedly short, and I make it through security in all of 10 minutes. I guess there are some benefits to tiny airports after all.

Beyond the security checkpoint, there’s nothing to do but wait. I find my gate, and see that my first flight to Chicago O’Hare is still listed as “on time”. After a 3-hour layover there, I’ll transfer to a larger, British Airways flight bound for London Heathrow.

I consider looking for food to buy here, but I know that my choices will be severely limited and absurdly expensive. There will be much more to pick from in Chicago, and I’ll have plenty of time. Instead, I pull out my laptop, only to find that I’m only allotted one hour of free Wi-Fi before I have to pay for continued access. What kind of bullshit is that? The Des Moines “International” Airport has instantly lost all progress it had briefly gained toward earning a place in my good graces.

Eventually, it’s time to board the plane. I find my window seat over the wing and stuff my backpack underneath the seat in front of me. Slowly, the other passengers find space for their things in the overhead bins and take their seats as well.

“Hello there,” says a short, round old woman wearing a knitted Christmas jumper. She sits down in the seat next to me. She seems like the chatty type. At least she’s not a young mother with a screaming baby on her lap. It could be worse. “Are you a Mallard student?” I should have known that it would be a mistake to wear my Mallard hoodie while traveling.

“Yes,” I answer her.

“Oh, that’s such wonderful school. My late husband Raymond went to law school there. We sent both of our sons there as well, one for his business degree, and the other is a pharmacist. I tried to convince my oldest granddaughter to go there, too, but she wanted to go out of state. I can understand that, I suppose. Are you headed home for the holidays?” she asks. I nod.

Home.

People keep using that word today. I’m starting to think that it means something different to them than it does to me.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she concludes. “I’m sure your parents will be very happy to have you back for a bit. I’m on my way to Chicago to visit my daughter and my grandbabies. I thought about driving there, but this time of year, you just never know what the roads are going to be like…”

I nod sympathetically and tune her out. She reminds me a lot of my grandmother. Not the one that’s relatively young and cool and likes to travel all over the world, but my old-fashioned, overbearing grandmother that I try my best to avoid at family gatherings. At least the flight from Des Moines to Chicago is only about an hour.

I stare at the giant engines mounted to the wing as we climb through the clouds. I picture one of them being hit by a bird and bursting into flame. I imagine the pilot losing control and the plane plunging down, down, down and then crash, bang, smoke, and what do you know? We’re all dead.

But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

We get to Chicago, and Christmas jumper lady and I part ways. I buy some pizza, and praise the Internet gods for granting me free, unlimited Wi-Fi at this airport. Two men in business suits sit down near me at the gate, and I almost jump when I hear their English accents. One step closer to civilization.

Thanks to the magic of time zones, it will be tomorrow morning by the time I arrive in London. Even though it’s only mid afternoon here, I need to try to sleep on the plane. That shouldn’t be much of a problem since I woke up early this morning and am generally exhausted from spending so much time revising over the last few days.

I wake up as we begin our descent into London, the winter sun just starting to peak over the horizon. Even though I’ve seen it many times before, the view of the city outside the plane window is astounding. The sea of buildings stretches out as far as I can see. I wonder if there are more buildings in London or acres of corn in Iowa.

For some reason, my mother insisted on taking the day off of work to come into London and meet me at the airport. I told her that I was perfectly capable of taking the train home by myself, but she wouldn’t have it. No, here she is, waiting for me next to the baggage carrousels. 

“Welcome home, Sweetheart!” Mum calls to me, her arms outstretched.

There’s that word again. Home.

What does that word even mean, really?

I’m back in the country where I was born, on my way back to the house where I’ve lived for my entire life. I’m with my family again, yet somehow I don’t feel like I’m at home here. At Christmas dinner, I’ll be surrounded by people who still think that I’m going to be a lawyer someday. They also have no idea that I’m not straight, and I don’t feel comfortable telling them.

Home is a place where you’re supposed to feel warm, comfortable, and accepted. I don’t know when Workingham stopping being that place for me, but I know that it has.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Mum says, squeezing me tightly. I return her embrace out of awkwardness more than anything.

I thought that everything would make more sense once I got home, but if anything, I think I’m more confused. I don’t have to go back to Iowa in January, but if I don’t, where does that leave me? I don’t want to be a lawyer, of that much I’m certain. What I do want in life, what I’m going to tell my family, and what the hell Phil wanted to talk to me about yesterday morning, all remain mysteries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squirrels don’t actually hibernate in the winter, but they do sleep a lot in order to conserve energy. I wasn’t able to find how many buildings there are in London, but there are about 14 million acres of corn in Iowa.


	19. A Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're all having a lovely holiday season! Thanks to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing! 
> 
> Nominations are open for the [2016 Phanfic Awards](http://phanficawards.tumblr.com/post/152594158882/phanfic-awards-2016-nominations) until December 31st. Please nominate your favorite fics from this year! It's a great way to show your appreciation for the authors that write them!

A tiny bell rings as I push open the door to the café. It’s a small, cozy sort of place; the perfect refuge on a cold winter day. I’m late, of course, but I can probably blame that on the jetlag. I’ve been back in England for over a week, but my body still hasn’t adjusted to the time change. It might be because traveling east is always harder to overcome, but really, it’s my own fault. The morning that I got home, I immediately crawled into my bed and took a nap that ended up lasting most of the day. Mum warned me not to, but she let me make that mistake on my own. So here I am, twelve days later, struggling to be awake and functional at 11:30 AM.

I scan the room, and see that the person I’m meeting isn’t here yet either. That’s a relief.

I order a coffee and a muffin. Just as I’m turning away from the counter, the bell rings again.

“Dan! Hi!” Haley greets, walking up to me and wrapping her tiny arms around my middle and squeezing tightly. She’s changed in the last six months or so since I last saw her. Most notably, her hair is now a pale lavender colour. She’s wearing a Christmas jumper despite the fact that the holiday has now passed.

“It’s good to see you, Haley,” I say, briefly returning her embrace. She steps away to place her order as I find us a table in a quiet corner.

“I’ve missed you, you know,” she tells me after the waitress has brought us our food.

“I’ve missed you, too,” I return, and it’s not really even a lie. Haley understands me in a way that few people ever have. It makes sense; we’ve known each other since primary school. There were many times during the semester when I would have welcomed her advice, but I never wanted to bother her with my insignificant problems. She texted me last week asking if I was also home for Christmas, and suggested that we meet for coffee and catch up.

“That’s good to hear. I was starting to worry that you’d run off to another continent and forgotten about me completely,” she says with a smirk.

“Never,” I answer. We were good friends once upon a time, before we became something more. There’s no reason we couldn’t go back to that.

“Why did you run off to another continent, anyway? I thought you were excited about Manchester Uni?” Haley scrunches her eyebrows in confusion and takes a sip of her latte.

“I was. And then I wasn’t. It’s just that… I'm not cut out to be a lawyer.”

“Don’t say that, you’re brilliant! And you’re certainly stubborn and argumentative enough.”

“Maybe I phrased that wrong. You’re right, I probably  _ could _ be a lawyer. But I would probably also hate every minute of it.”

“But I thought you were still going to Manchester next year? That’s what your mum told my mum, at least.”

Leave it to the local gossip to dictate my future.

“I’m not going to Manchester. At least not for law,” I tell her. “But my parents don’t exactly know that yet, and I’d appreciate it if we could keep it that way for the time being.”

She looks me in the eye. “Yeah, of course.”

“And don’t ask what I’m going to do instead, because I still haven’t got a fucking clue.” I pick at what remains of my blueberry muffin as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Okay, we’ll talk about something else, then,” she says without missing a beat. “So what’s America like?” she asks.

“You’ve been to America, you know what it’s like,” I retort.

“I’ve been to New York for like four days. You’ve lived there now.” She says it like it’s some sort of achievement, like I’ve earned some sort of prize or merit badge for braving the craziness that is the United States.

“Well, I didn’t live in New York, that’s for sure.”

“I still can’t believe that they sent you to the middle of nowhere,” she says. Haley must have heard that through the rumor mill as well.

I think back to August, when being sent to Mallard was my biggest grievance in life. “Yeah, it’s not exactly what I had in mind. But it isn’t all bad.”

“And you’re going back for another semester?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I am.”

She takes another sip of her coffee, encourages me to continue.

“I mean, they have a really good broadcast program. There are good people there, I’ve made friends there,” I say, thinking of Tom and Aubrey and my other classmates. Haley just stares at me, but I continue to ramble on. “And sure, some of the people are downright infuriating. They say things and do things, and then they take them back, and –”

Haley giggles.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“Who is she?” Aubrey demands, staring me down like she won’t take a plea of ignorance as an answer.

“Who?”

“The girl who’s got you all… flustered.”

“There’s no girl,” I insist. I shake my head, wondering how I’m going to adequately explain away her accusation.

Her eyes search my face for a moment, and I hope that she can see that I’m telling the truth.

“Who’s the guy, then?” she asks, keeping her voice very quiet. The whispering strikes me as odd at first, but then I remember where we are. This is a decidedly public place in our hometown. The old ladies two tables away could easily be in some church group with my grandma.

I consider denying it, but there’s hardly any point. Haley always could read me like a book. 

“His name is Phil,” I tell her. “He definitely has a thing for me, too. Like, I’m pretty sure that he broke up with his long-term girlfriend over it. But he says that we can’t be involved because it’s against the rules.”

“Why is it against the rules?”

“Because he’s an RA in one of the residence halls. He’s a student, but he’s in charge of the younger students that live there.” I choose to leave out the part about him also being my PMACC, because that’s an even stranger concept that doesn’t even apply anymore now that the fall semester is over.

“And you’re one of the students that lives there?”

“No, I live in the building next door.”

“So then why is it against the rules?”

“I’m not really sure that it is, but I think it’s still frowned upon. Also, we might be doing a radio show together next term.” That probably adds to the “frowned upon” bit - I think.

“But you like him, and he likes you?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh,” Haley says. She seems confused as to why Phil and I aren’t together. That makes two of us. “I bet he’ll come around eventually. Maybe you should look up whether or not it’s actually against the rules. That might help.”

I nod, and make a mental note to do just that. I knew that Haley would have some sort of sage advice for me.

I realize that we’ve been talking about me for far too long, and decide to change the subject. “How’s London?” I ask.

“Amazing,” she says, she eyes wide with enthusiasm. “I love living in the city. There’s always so much going on, you know? And it’s nice not being too far away from home.”

I picture her taking the train home every other weekend to see her parents and her little sister. That seems like something that she would do, being so close. I picture what may have been if only I’d decided to take a gap year long ago, wonder if we could have made it work with her in London and me in Workingham instead of Manchester. Maybe we could have tried.

But there’s no point in dwelling on what might have been. I know that we wouldn't have been happy in the long run. No, not when kissing Phil made me feel things that fucking her never did. And even if that’s all I ever get from him, it will have been worth it.

Maybe Haley’s right, maybe he’ll come around. Maybe he’ll decide that what we have is worth breaking a few rules for. I certainly think that it is. But it will be weeks before I see him again, so I’ll just have to try to be patient, not that that’s ever been one of my strong suits.

As fate would have it, I don’t have to wait weeks to hear from Phil. Later that same day, I receive a Facebook message from him.

_ We need to talk about something. Do you have Skype? _

Talk about what? Us? Me being an ass and ditching the radio show two weeks in a row? Probably that, if I had to guess.

We pick a time late enough for it to be acceptable to escape my family’s company and hide in my room. The minutes tick closer and closer, and nervousness fills my stomach. I adjust my fringe using my dusty laptop screen as a mirror. I catch a glimpse of the spots on my face and curse my oily teenage skin. But there’s nothing to be done about that right now.

The familiar bubbly ring tone emanates from my speakers. I answer the call.

“Hey Dan,” Phil greets, waving his hand at the webcam. He’s sat on a plain-looking bed, against a beige wall. It’s not exactly how I would have imagined his childhood bedroom looking. But what do I know? Maybe his parents redecorated when he went off to college or something.

“Hi,” I return.

“How was your Christmas?” he asks with a friendly smile. He seems less stressed than the last time I saw him. The time away from school has melted that away.

“Fine. Pretty standard.” Pretty boring, but that’s probably better left unsaid. Phil might find my negative experience of his favourite holiday to be personally offensive somehow.

“Good,” Phil says tentatively like he’s not quite sure what to make of my lack of enthusiasm.

“So what is it that you wanted to talk to me about?” I ask. We might as well skip the pleasantries, thanks.

Phil takes a deep breath. “Right. Do you remember how I was telling you about my thesis project: the documentary about small towns in Iowa?” he asks. I nod, thought I have no idea what this has to do with me. “I wrote up my proposal and turned it in the first week of December. Then I had a meeting with Dr. Torres, my advisor, during finals week. She rejected my proposal.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I offer, unsure of what else to say.

“She said that my heart wasn’t in it anymore, which is probably true. Caroline helped me come up with the idea for the documentary, and she was supposed to help me find people to interview for it, too. I’m not sure how it would have turned out without her help, so it’s probably for the best.”

“So what does this have to do with me?” I ask.

“I asked Dr. Torres what exactly I was supposed to do now, since there really wasn’t time for me to come up with a whole new project idea. She said that she wanted to pursue my original idea, the one for the visual radio show.”

Now I see where this is going.

“It didn’t work before because it was good, but not great. But I think that with Aubrey’s help and with you as my co-host, it could be great,” he says. “I’m going back to Des Moines a few weeks early to work out the details with the people from IT, to make sure that we can stream live video to the website. But before I do that, before I fully commit to this, I need to know that you’re in.”

He stares at me, his pleading blue eyes threatening to pierce my soul. But I say nothing, wondering just how much begging I can make him do.

“This will be a good opportunity for you too,” he continues. “Because it won’t just be the Phil show, it’ll be the Phil and Dan show. It would be your project as well. First year students don’t get these kinds of opportunities very often,” he reminds me. “Please?” he adds.

I want to say no out of spite, want to see him scramble to come up with a backup plan, but I know that that would be counterproductive. I want to do this. The radio show was my favourite part of last semester, and I know that Phil still has more to teach me. Plus, if I’m going to change his mind about us, it’s the perfect excuse to innocently spend more time together.

“I’ll do it, but on one condition,” I declare. Phil nods, tells me to go on. “We have to call it the Dan and Phil show. ‘And Dan’ just sounds awful with the two D’s next to each other like that. It’s too hard to pronounce if you’re going to try and annunciate properly.”

“Consider it done,” he says, and I watch him scribble something on his notepad. “Are you sure about this? Because you have to be there every week. You can’t just not show up because you’re mad at me or something.”

“I’ll be there every week,” I promise.

“Thank you thank you thank you!” he chants with a victorious grin on his face.

“You’re welcome,” I return. It’s good to be wanted. It makes me feel powerful.

He yawns, and then says, “Sorry, I guess I’m more tired than I thought.” But this strikes me as odd. Florida is 5 hours behind England.

“Why are you so tired? Isn’t it like 6 PM there?” I question.

“Huh? Oh, I’m not in Florida right now. I’m in Manchester, visiting my grandparents.”

“Oh,” I say. “Then why were you so worked up about it snowing in Des Moines before break?” It snowed a bit here a few days ago, so they’re bound to have snow in the north.

“Because I wanted snow before Christmas,” he explains. “We didn’t get here until a few days after.”

I roll my eyes at him. Christmas on a beach sounds pretty nice to me.

“I’ll let you go, then, so you can get some sleep,” I offer.

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Phil says. “I’ll see you at the end of January?”

“Yeah, see you then.” When we’re both back on a different continent.

It’s strange to think that he’s here in England. On a global scale, we’re so close, but really, we’re still so far apart. I wonder if it will always be like this, even when we’re back living in neighboring buildings or sat in adjacent chairs behind a radio control panel.

But maybe there’s hope. Maybe he’ll come around. 

 

 


	20. Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tanoh returns for another semester! Yay! 
> 
> Fun fact: the main plot of this chapter has almost occurred to me twice now. Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

“Ok, that’s better,” Phil says, finally satisfied with the adjustment that he’s made to the camera mounting. “Stand up so I can test it?”

I obey with a groan of protest. We've been working on setting up the cameras in the radio studio for over an hour. Phil has decided that we should stand rather than sit behind the desk during our show. He wants us to be able to move around and interact; he feels that it will make the show more dynamic. I stand and wave at the camera awkwardly, keeping my face expressionless.

“There we go, that’ll work,” Phil concludes after looking at the feed on his laptop.

It’s strange to be back here, to be working with him as if nothing ever happened between us. We’re mostly just ignoring it, which I suppose is all we can do, really.

I hear the door handle turn. “Hi, friends,” Aubrey says as she enters the room. She’s here to go over some promotional things with us. “How was your Christmas?” she asks since it’s the first time either of us has seen her since break started.

“Really nice, how was yours?” Phil asks.

“Good. How was England, Dan?”

“Fine,” I return.

“Did you fly in today or yesterday?” she asks me.

“Yesterday,” I say. The dorms reopened on Saturday, so I thought it would be a safer option to return then, just in case one of my flights was to be delayed or canceled on Sunday and I were to end up stuck in some airport overnight. It is the dead of winter, after all. Missing the first day of classes probably would not be a great way to start off the semester. And I was happy to have an excuse to escape the drudgery of staying at my parent’s house a day sooner.

“Yeah, that’s the smart thing to do. Tom’s supposed to be flying in this evening, but there’s a big snowstorm hitting the east coast right now.”

“Why would that matter if he’s coming from California?” I question. There’s snow on the ground here, but it’s a few days old, so the roads are clear.

“Because his connecting flight is through Chicago, and the plane might be coming from back east.”

“Oh, yeah, he might be stuck there for a while,” Phil comments.

Aubrey nods. “I told him that he could probably stay the night with my parents, but he’s really worried about missing one of his classes tomorrow morning. Apparently the professor is a real hard-ass and might drop him from the class if he’s not there on the first day.”

“Technically they can do that,” Phil tells us. “I don’t know of any professor that actually would if someone has a valid reason like the weather, though.”

“That’s what I said, but apparently this particular psych prof has actually done it in the past.” Aubrey’s phone begins to vibrate in her hand. “It’s Tom. He must have heard something from the airline,” she says before answering the call and stepping back into the hallway.

“Would they really do that? Drop him from the class?” I ask Phil.

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s possible,” he admits, then returns to making adjustments in the computer program that controls the video feed from the new cameras.

Aubrey reappears a few minutes later. “He wants to talk to you,” she says, extending the phone toward Phil.

They talk for a few moments, with Phil mostly just saying “uh-huh” and “yeah”. Aubrey tells me that Tom’s flight to Des Moines has officially been canceled. Apparently he is concerned about being dropped from this particular class because it is only offered every other year, and that it is a prerequisite for another class that he was hoping to take in his junior year. He looked into taking a bus, but it wouldn’t get him here in time.

“I mean, I guess we could just come get you,” Phil suggests. “How long would it take to get to O’Hare from here?” he asks Aubrey.

“About 5 or 5 and a half hours,” she answers.

“And what time is this class?” Phil asks Tom.

I faintly make out his response, “8 AM.” Of course.

I quickly count the hours in my head. It’s almost 5 PM now. We’d have to stop for gas and for food along the way, since I don’t think any of us have eaten dinner yet. But we could make it there and back in that time.  Only then do I stop to questions why I’m including myself in this scenario. Phil’s the one with the car, and Aubrey’s the one that knows how to get there. And it’s her boyfriend we’d be rescuing. They wouldn’t need me to come along for the ride. Then why is it that I subconsciously wanted to be included in this torture?

I hear Tom protesting on the other end of the line that Phil doesn’t need to do that, that it’s too much to ask.

“No, no, I really don’t mind,” Phil insists. “It’ll be a fun rescue mission.”

“Are you sure, Phil?” Aubrey asks. “You probably won’t get any sleep tonight.”

“My first class tomorrow isn’t until 2, so I can take a nap when we get back. I’m in if you’re in.”

“This will mean making the same drive three times in under 24 hours for me, but yeah, I’m in. Dan, are you coming too?”

I glance between them, and see two pairs of hopeful eyes staring back at me and waiting for a reply. “Sure, what the hell,” I agree, and they both smile.

We return to the dorms to gather a few essential items, then pile into Phil’s Jeep twenty minutes later.

“Shadowfax, show us the meaning of haste,” Phil says, addressing the white and gray Jeep by name. God, he’s even more of a nerd than I am.

“This is going to be so much fun,” Aubrey says as we head toward the highway. She’s sat cross-legged in the backseat, scribbling things down in a notebook. “We can all take turns driving, navigating, and sleeping. Phil, how much gas do you have?” she asks.

“A little under three-fourths of a tank,” he replies.

“That should be enough to get us to the Quad Cities, to the Illinois border. We can switch drivers there and buy more snacks. That’s actually where the World’s Largest Truck stop is, we could stop there,” she rattles on. “Wait, Dan, can you actually drive here? Legally speaking?”

“I think so,” I offer. Phil shifts gears as we turn onto the entrance ramp, jerking the car as he always does. “Can you drive a manual?”

“Shit, no,” Aubrey admits. “Damn it, I didn’t even think of that!” She scratches her pencil across the page, voiding her previous plans.

“That’s alright, Aubrey, we’ll be fine with just Dan and me driving. Besides, you’re the one who knows Chicago, so we need you to navigate.”

“Right. We’ll be hitting town pretty late, and we shouldn’t really have to worry about traffic, so that’s good. We should take I-88 out of the Quad Cities. It’s a more direct route to O’Hare.”

“You’re the expert,” says Phil.

We pass the time mostly by talking about the radio show. Phil tells me about some of the little games that he’s come up with us to play while the songs are playing, but the audience can still see us through the live feed. He’s bought a small whiteboard and some markers, apparently. He also mentions that he wants to continue my Internet News idea from last semester and make it a regular weekly segment. I’m flattered, though I know that it will probably mean more work for me.

The radio signal starts to fade out when we get about an hour away from town. Phil switches over to the CD player, and  _ A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out _ starts to play. The cornfields continue to roll by outside the window.

We stop for gas just outside of Davenport, Iowa. I volunteer to drive us the rest of the way to the Chicago suburbs, though we all agree that Phil should take over again once we’re there.

“Just promise to stay on the right side of the road, okay?” Aubrey asks as I pull away from the petrol pump.

I scoff at her. “It’s a divided interstate highway, I think I’ll be fine.”

Sitting behind the wheel of Phil’s car feels a bit strange, as I’ve never driven anything this large before. When I turn left onto the road that leads back to the highway, I instinctively turn too tightly at first, but I quickly correct my mistake. Thanks to Phil’s Florida license plates, the cars behind us probably just think that I’m an idiotic, domestic tourist.

We cross the Mississippi River, and I’m genuinely impressed by it’s sized. It’s got to be at least a mile wide here, considerably wider than the Thames, even east of London. Some things really are bigger in America.

Aubrey instructs me to take the ramp from I-80 to I-88, and I obey.

“It says toll road,” Phil says in a questioning tone, having also read the sign that we just passed. He looks over at me, and I can tell that he’s mildly concerned about this revelation.

“Yeah, it’s kind of a pain to pay, but it will get us there faster,” Aubrey says nonchalantly without looking up from her phone. She’s probably texting Tom, if I had to guess.

“Okay, but how much is the toll?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s not that bad, and you get a discount for using an I-pass.”

“A what?” Phil asks.

Aubrey looks up suddenly, her wide eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “We don’t have an I-pass, do we?”

“No, we don’t,” Phil affirms.

“Shit! I completely forgot! My family just always has one in the car, so I didn’t even think about the tolls. Oh, this is not good.”

“Sorry, what even is an I-pass?” I ask, though we apparently have bigger problems if Aubrey’s panicking is anything to go by.

“It’s a transmitter thing that lets you pay the tolls electronically without having to pull over at all of the toll booths,” Aubrey explains, furiously typing away on her phone. “I’m trying to look up how much this is going to cost us. How much cash do you guys have on you?”

I manage to fish my wallet out of my back pocket without crashing the car and toss it back to Aubrey. There’s maybe $10 in there if we’re lucky. Phil hands her a few crumpled dollar bills, and Aubrey retrieves her own stash from her backpack. She counts the cash and consults her notes.

“I think we’ll be okay, but is there any chance either of you has any more coins?” Aubrey explains that the tollbooths along the interstate should have attendants that can give us change, but that the gates on the exits ramps only take coins.

Phil shakes his head, and I also reply in the negative.

“Okay, well, we should accrue some in change along the way, so we should be fine. I’ll do the math and double check.” Aubrey scribbles on her notebook again, using her phone as a torch now that we’re far from the city lights. “We should have enough,” she concludes a few minutes later. “And I mean, worst case scenario, Dan has to drive to O’Hare without stopping.”

Phil breathes an audible sigh of relief.

Aubrey begins to yawn shortly after, the adrenalin of beginning our adventure and of solving the toll crisis having worn off. “Wake me up when we get to Naperville,” she instructs before closing her eyes.

“Where’s Naperville?” I whisper to Phil a few silent minutes later.

“I have no idea,” Phil replies.

We drive in silence for what feels like hours, but is probably more like fifteen minutes. We pass through the first toll plaza, and the attendant begrudgingly gives my change for the $10 that I hand him for the $3.60 toll.

“So are you excited to be back in the States?” Phil asks me out of the blue.

“I guess,” I say. “It’s better than sitting around my parent’s house doing nothing all day and having them judge me for it.”

“Being a university student is mentally exhausting; you needed the break. Certainly your parents understood that?”

I shrug.

“It’s important to take time to relax. It’s a good opportunity to think about the future, to get things figured out.”

“Is that what you did over break?”

“Sort of,” he says. “I spent a lot of time working on the radio show, but I also turned in applications to four different master’s programs.”

“For video production?”

He nods. “What about you? Have you made any decisions about your future?”

I sigh. Yes and no. “I know for certain that I’m never going to be a lawyer,” I tell him.

“That’s good. The idea of you as a lawyer is pretty ridiculous, really.” I open my mouth to voice my offense, but Phil continues, “I just can’t imagine you wearing one of those stupid, powdery white wigs that English lawyers have to wear in court.” The mental image is pretty comical, I’ll give him that.

“Yeah, that’s never going to happen.”

“I’m sure it was good to be home for a while, right?”

Maybe it’s the fatigue talking, but I decide to be brutally honest with him. “For me, going home doesn’t mean what it means to most people. Like, my parent’s house doesn’t really feel like home to me anymore.”

Phil stares at me, clearly shocked by my words. I can tell that he thinks I’m a freak. Hell, he’s probably going to tell me that I need professional help and refer me to the Mallard counseling center.

“I know exactly what you mean,” he tells me. And then it’s my turn to be shocked.

“You do?” I ask. Once again, Phil has proven that he never ceases to surprise me.

“Florida has never really felt like home to me,” Phil says, staring out the windshield rather than meeting my glances. “It’s a tourist trap. It’s the sort of place people go to visit, but not the sort of place where people stay forever. Florida is nice, but it’s never been this nostalgic, perfect place for me like England is to my parents. I’ve never found anyone who understands it the way you do.”

That makes two of us.

Of all people, I never would have guessed that Phil has experienced this feeling before, the abstract notion of home. 

“And this doesn’t bother you?” I ask, still trying to process his words.

“Not really,” he answers. “Besides, home isn’t really a place, you know. Home is family. Home is feeling loved and secure. Home is people,” he concludes.

That’s all well and good, but what if I don’t have those sorts of people like he does? 

We start seeing signs for O’Hare International Airport and decide to follow them, concluding that we probably missed Naperville a long time ago. We’re making good time, but it is incredibly annoying to have to pull over and pay a toll every few miles. I grow increasingly jealous of all of the cars with their I-passes as time goes on.

“Aubrey, we’re here,” Phil announces, gently shaking her shoulder.

“What? Oh,” she says as she takes in our new surroundings. She calls Tom and navigates us to the correct terminal. A few minutes later, phase one of our rescue mission is complete.

“You guys are lifesavers, thank you so, so much,” Tom says after he climbs into the back seat.

We determine that Tom can’t drive a manual either, so it becomes Phil’s turn to take the wheel again.

As we leave the city in the early hours of the morning, Phil keeps telling me that I should try to get some sleep now that he’s driving again, but I’d rather not. I don’t need sleep;sleep is for the weak. No, I’ll stay awake and watch the sun rise with Phil as our journey comes to its end.

But apparently my body has other ideas.

I wake up as Shadowfax jerks to a halt at the end of the exit ramp just down the street from Mallard.

“Good morning, sleepyheads,” Phil greets, addressing everyone in the car. “Time for school!” A collective groan resounds. 

After thanking Phil one last time, Tom and Aubrey walk across the parking lot together hand in hand. “Hey, Phil?” I ask, determined to seize the opportunity while I can. 

“Hmm?” he asks. 

“It’s not actually against the rules, you know,” I tell him. I took Haley’s advice and looked up the university’s Code of Conduct. “RA’s are not allowed to be involved with residents that live in their building, but there’s no mention of residents in other halls,” I summarize for him. 

But he already knew that. And now he knows that I know as well. 

Phil stares at his feet and sighs. He looks up at me, his fringe having fallen down across the side of his face. “Have a good day, Dan,” he says with the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “And try not to fall asleep in class.” 

It takes all of the self-control that I can muster to let him walk away. 

Plant a seed, watch it grow.

 

 


	21. The Dan and Phil Show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). Thank you!

My heart pounds in my chest. I try my best to ignore the glare of the studio lights shining in my eyes and look into the camera without squinting.

“Ten seconds,” Aubrey warns from her seat on the opposite side of the desk. I sneak a glance over at Phil, who looks decidedly calm and collected. “Deep breaths; you’re going to do great!” she adds for my benefit, I’m sure.

I return to staring down the camera and follow her instructions.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Aubrey holds up her hand and silently counts down using her fingers.

Five, four, three, two, one…

“Hello, hello!” I say into the microphone. For some reason, the introduction is my responsibility. “Welcome to the new and improved Sunday evening request show. You’re listening to–”

“–and watching–” Phil interjects.

“ –Dan and Phil on 96.1 The Duck,” I finish. I keep telling myself that I’ve done the Sunday request show once before, and that this is no different. But it is different. This isn’t Phil’s show, it’s our show.

“That’s right, you heard correctly from Dan, you can now watch us live in the studio, on the radio station’s website,” Phil tells the audience. He reads off the website as well as our phone number for listeners to call in and make song requests. “So whether you’re getting your semester off on the right foot by studying tonight, or you’re taking a break while you still can, give us a call and let us know what we can play for you,” he adds.

“Before everyone’s requests start pouring in, I’d like to make one of my own, Phil,” I announce. “You see, someone’s birthday is tomorrow.”

Phil tilts his head to the side, silently questioning. I smile at him warmly.

“That’s right, everyone, my esteemed co-host is turning 22 years old tomorrow. So Happy Birthday, Phil,” I say. “Here’s Taylor Swift to give you an idea of what it will be like being 22.”

I press the button and play the song that Aubrey had queued up for me. The upbeat pop song is a bit of a contrast to the alternative rock that we typically play, but I think that the audience will forgive me for the sentiment.

Phil smiles at me fondly. “You didn’t need to do that, Dan,” he contends. I shrug in return.

“I thought it was very nice,” Aubrey offers. I think that she’s starting to pick up on my feelings for Phil. I just hope that she doesn’t decide to butt in and play matchmaker. I’m working on that myself.

As the song plays, I write ‘Happy Birthday, Phil!’ on the small whiteboard and hold it up to the camera. “Is anyone actually watching?” I ask Phil, who is looking down at his laptop, no doubt examining the viewer statistics from the website.

“Right now, three people are watching,” he tells us.

“Okay, well, that’s better than none,” Aubrey says, ever the optimist.

The phone rings, and Aubrey excitedly briefs our very first caller while the song finishes.

“Welcome back, we’re Dan and Phil, and that was Taylor Swift with 22, the only song we could have chosen to open today’s show with, given that tomorrow is Phil’s birthday,” I recap for any new listeners that may have joined us.

“Thanks, Dan,” Phil says. “I’m told that we have our first caller this evening. What’s your name?”

“Hello, Phil! My name is Holly,” she tells us. “I listened to your show a few times last semester, and I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re back.” This may technically be my show as well, but it’s Phil that the people already know and love. Of course they’re going to want to talk to him.

“Thanks, Holly, I’m glad you’re back listening as well. Are you listening on the radio, or are you watching us on the website?”

“I’m watching online, actually,” she says.

“Fantastic,” I butt in. We both wave at the camera. “We hope you enjoy the new feature.”

“Oh, most definitely!” Holly admits with a giggle.

“What song can we play for you tonight?” Phil asks.

“Well, I’m going to see Young the Giant in concert next month, and I’m really excited. Could you play something of theirs?”

“Of course!” I answer. “Here’s _Something to Believe In_ ,” I say, reading off of the sticky note where Aubrey’s written the title of the preselected song. “Thanks, Holly!”

“Thank you!” she says over the opening notes of the song. Aubrey hangs up the call, and gives me a thumbs-up from across the desk.

The first hour of the show goes off without too many issues. I fuck up once and hit the wrong sound effect button. Aubrey fucks up and starts playing a song while Phil’s still talking. But all things considered, we make it through just fine.

At the halfway point, I read out the Internet news. This time, it’s a conglomeration of funny stories about animals doing weird things, because I thought that Phil might like that for his birthday show. There’s the dog who stole the Christmas turkey from the kitchen counter, the cat who helped a bunch of other animals escape from the pound, and someone’s pet lizard who has been trained to sort of play the piano.

We speak to another caller and take their request. While his song plays, Phil and I take turns drawing birthday cakes on the whiteboard. I go first, and concentrate mostly on keeping my lines straight, my design symmetrical and aesthetically pleasing. I’m quite happy with my three-tiered masterpiece, but Phil seems unimpressed. He take the board and writes “B-” in the upper right corner for the camera to see. He erases the board and draws his own cake. His version is hastily drawn with little attention to precision. He does, however, embellish his design with numerous candies around the edges of the cake as well as what looks like a bloated dog sitting on the top. He tells me that it’s supposed to be a lion. I give him a “D+”, and he pouts.

“How many people are watching now?” I ask Phil just before the song ends.  

“Thirteen,” he answers. “But there were twenty-one at the top of the hour, so that’s good!” I remind myself that it’s only the first show, and that people are probably busy with other things this weekend while they don’t have to worry about studying too much yet. They will come to us later once they have something to procrastinate. That, and I’m sure that Aubrey will redouble her marketing efforts.

We’ve got maybe fifteen minutes left of the show when all hell breaks loose.

“Oh wow, there are actually two lines ringing at the same time!” Aubrey announces. She puts one of the callers on hold and moves on to the other. She seems excited by the prospect of having to decide which caller’s story will take priority and actually make it onto the air. Aubrey writes me a note saying that a caller named Katie is on line one.

“You’re listening to Dan and Phil on 96.1 The Duck,” I resume after the prerecorded ads and station announcements. “It looks like we have another caller with us. Hello, Katie! Thanks for calling,” I say.

“Oh my god! Phil, is that really you?” the girl asks. She sounds like a rather young teenager.

“Yes, hello!” Phil says with a wave to the camera.

“I can’t believe that I’m actually talking to you right now,” she gushes. “A few people were talking about this on twitter, and I thought for sure that it was fake or a misunderstanding, but oh my god, it’s real! You’re real!”

People were talking about what on twitter? Our show? But why would she think that it was fake?

Phil laughs uncomfortably. “Yes, I am. What song would you like to hear?”

“Oh, right! Um, can you play _Toxic_ by Britney Spears?” The girl giggles, and then the phone line goes dead.

There’s a beat of silence. I glance over at Phil. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“We sure can, Katie. We hope you have a good night!” I finish on Phil’s behalf.

The song begins, and I instantly remember why it sounded vaguely significant to me. Phil did a lip syncing music video to a cover of this song on his Youtube channel years ago. It was back when he was a completely unknown entity, before he found any kind of success. It was harmless fun, but it was also vaguely sexy and provocative. And that girl knew exactly what she was referencing.

People were talking about our show on twitter. Phil told Aubrey that he didn’t have twitter, and I told her that he was lying.

Oh, fuck.  

Phil refuses to look up from his laptop for the entire duration of the song. As the seconds slowly tick by, the phone keeps ringing and ringing and ringing. Aubrey’s expression has turned from joy to panic.

I catch a glimpse of the webpage that Phil is staring at. There are over a thousand people watching us right now, staring at my shitty attempt at drawing a T-rex on the whiteboard that I’m holding up for the camera to see.

“Don’t bother with that,” Phil says to me. “The website just crashed.”

“Holy crap,” I whisper without even questioning whether or not the microphones were on to pick up my profanity.

“We are sorry to report that we are having a few technical difficulties here in the studio tonight,” Phil announces once the song ends. “Our visual radio show is a new concept for us here at The Duck, and we are still trying to iron out a few kinks in the system. Unfortunately, our live web stream is currently down. For those of you that are still listening, we are currently unable to take your calls as we are trying to solve the problem with the website.”

We play another song just to fill the time. Phil tells Aubrey to leave the phone off of the hook. The minutes pass by at an agonizingly slow pace, but eventually, our time slot comes to an end.

This is the end. Our show is over before it has even properly begun. All because I fucked it up.

“What. The hell. Just happened?” Phil demands. He looks to Aubrey and then to me for an answer.

“Well, it would appear that we had such an influx of viewers that the website couldn’t handle the traffic,” Aubrey offers. Of course she would try to put a positive spin on what I could only describe as a total disaster.

“Yes, and why was there such an influx of viewers?” Phil persists.

“That would probably be because I tagged you in a promotional tweet,” Aubrey admits, still maintaining her positive tone, never hinting that she has done anything wrong. “I thought that some of your followers might like to watch the show.”

Now Phil has turned his livid gaze on me. I purse my lips and try not to give off any emotion. I need to mimic Aubrey, refuse to admit defeat.

But I know that this strategy will only last me momentarily. Phil knows that I know about his secret twitter that goes along with his secret Youtube channel. Surely he must know that this information made its way to Aubrey from me.

Phil holds his silence, waiting for me to confess my crime. Instead, I turn at look at Aubrey pleadingly. Perhaps by some miracle she’ll know that my eyes are begging her to bail me out of this mess I’m in.

“I feel like I’m missing something here,” Aubrey interjects.

“I recall telling you last semester that I didn’t have a twitter account,” Phil says. His flat tone is reminiscent of the time that he told me that we couldn’t be together while also eating my chips without asking.

“Right, you did,” Aubrey replies. She pauses and looks back at me briefly before continuing. “But I thought that that couldn’t possibly be true. I mean, you’re a College of Journalism and Mass Communication student. Using twitter is practically a prerequisite for some of our intro-level courses.”

She’s right. Several of my classes have talked about social media, and have even given assignments that required using it.

“So I did some research,” Aubrey concludes.

“And you didn’t think to ask me before associating my account with this production, knowing that I didn’t want you to?”

“I didn’t know that you didn’t want me to,” Aubrey returns, still maintaining her composure. “I just assumed that you were being humble. I never would have expected you to have as many followers as you do. And I know what it could mean for this show.”

I turn back to him, maintaining my fraudulent confidence. You can trust me, Phil. I would never share your secrets.

“It could mean disaster for this show,” Phil declares. “I have put a great deal of effort into keeping my Internet persona separate from my professional self. Now, that divide has been irrevocably dissolved.”

“I’m sorry,” Aubrey says. “If I could take it back, I would, but I can’t. The information is out there now, and there’s really nothing that we can do about it. But we can try to make the best of it, to use it to our advantage. There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right?”

Phil avoids eye contact with either of us. “Aubrey has a point,” I offer as gently as I can.

“I’m going to go now,” Phil announces. “I need to draft some kind of statement. And I’m sure the station manager will want to meet with me in the morning.” He gathers his things and leaves the room without either of us saying anything else.

The door clicks shut.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you Aubrey!” I quietly chant.

“You had better have a damn good reason why I just covered for you, Howell!” she hisses.

“Um, is the fact that Phil would have never forgiven me a good enough reason?” He’ll forgive Aubrey, though. She didn’t betray his trust in the same way that I did.

“Why the fuck did you tell me about his twitter in the first place if you knew that he didn’t want me to know?”

“Because I was mad at him at the time,” I answer. “It was stupid and petty and I really shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

Aubrey slowly shakes her head at me. “All I can say is that I better not have saved your sorry ass for no good reason.”

“Thank you,” I repeat.

“Seriously, you’d better ask him out sooner rather than later. I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes.”

I pause, trying to find the right words to explain. “It’s a bit more complicated than that, but I’m working on it,” I promise.

 

 

 


	22. Fake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that you don't have to drink to have fun in college, kids. 
> 
> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

I’m really quite pleased with the way that my class schedule has turned out this semester. My earliest lecture during the week is at 10 AM on Mondays and Wednesdays. I only have one evening class, an art course simply titled “Movement” that seems like it will be a joke. Everything else is built around the radio show. I’m taking a digital audio production course, and an audio news course that focuses on reporting and editing, something called Digital Media Strategies, and a journalism ethics class. There’s also my video production class, which is less about radio, and more about Phil and his version of what radio can be. The best part? I don’t have a single class on Fridays.

On Fridays, however, I do have a perpetually recurring meeting with Phil for us to work on our radio show. It’s supposed to be a time for me to prepare for the Internet news segment and for us to discuss the games that we’re going to play to entertain the web audience while the songs play. But I have a feeling that tomorrow’s meeting will be a bit different. Given what happened last Sunday, it will probably focus on how any chance Phil might have had at a normal career in media production, has been thoroughly decimated by yours truly.

I’m not looking forward to it whatsoever. Which is why I’m hoping that Tom knows of some frat party that we can go to tonight and get shitfaced.

I walk across the hall and knock on Tom’s door. I hear music playing from inside, which is a good sign. He’s probably getting ready to go out.

He swings the door open and smiles at me. “Hey, Dan! Are you coming with us tonight?” Aubrey is sat on the futon applying the finishing touches to her makeup. Jake, Tom’s roommate, is nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah, I was hoping to,” I tell him. “Do we need to find more girls to come with, so that we can get in?” I ask, recalling that some of the frat houses require guys to bring a certain number of female guests in order to get in the door.

“Nope, I know the guy that’s on door duty tonight, and he owes me a favor for helping him with his psych homework last semester,” Tom explains.

“Oh, cool,” I respond, stepping into the room.

“Hey, Dan!” Aubrey says. She pats the futon cushion next to her, inviting me to sit down. “Do you know of anyone else that wants to come with?” she asks me.

“No, not really.”

“I just hate to make you third-wheel whenever you come out with us,” she continues. “Maybe you should invite Phil,” she suggests like it’s some logical conclusion, when in reality, it might be the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.

I squint my eyes at her. “Phil is an RA, he’s programmed to be morally opposed to underage drinking.”

“Yeah, but he’s not  _ our _ RA,” Aubrey retorts. “He’s not even our PMAC anymore, technically.”

“Believe me, I know,” I say. I glance over at Tom, wondering if he understands what we’re really talking about. He probably does. Aubrey seems like the type of girl to tell her boyfriend all about my pathetic excuse for a love life. “I still don’t think that he would come out with us. He doesn’t need to go to these stupid house parties. He’s of age; he can go to real bars.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could go to real bars?” Toms asks to no one in particular.

“Yeah, it would,” I say. “Stupid fucking Americans and your goddamn drinking laws,” I mutter, leaning back into the futon.

“Apparently there’s this bar downtown that’s filled with old arcade games. It’s in the basement of some building in the East Village. A few of my sorority sisters were telling me about it,” Aubrey tells us.

“That sounds really cool,” Tom admits. “Too bad we can’t go.”

Aubrey thinks for a moment. “I mean, we could,” she proposes, “We would just need fake IDs.”

Tom’s eyes widen as if that’s the best idea since the invention of the tequila shot. “Do you know someone who can make them?” he asks his girlfriend.

“I might,” Aubrey affirms with a sly smile.

“Well, you two have fun with that,” I say. Even if they could get me a fake American driver’s license too, it wouldn’t really do me much good.

“You don’t want to get one, Dan? I’m surprised,” Aubrey says.

“I mean, does this person that you know do fake passports, too?” I ask.

“I highly doubt it,” Aubrey replies, “but a license is all that you would need to get into a bar.”

“But what are they going to think when I order a drink in an English accent and then hand them an American ID?”

“I don’t think it would be a problem,” Tom assures me. “They typically check your ID at the door, not when you order a drink, right?”

Aubrey shrugs her shoulders.

“What if the bouncer questions me at the door?” I push, knowing that I’m probably being overly paranoid. I really can’t risk getting arrested, though. That would probably invalidate my visa, and then I’d have to go home before the semester is up. It’s just not worth the risk, especially when I can easily aquire free alcohol at college parties pretty much whenever I like.

“So come up with a story. Tell them that you grew up in England, but your family moved here a few years ago or something. Just bullshit them; you’re good at that,” Aubrey insists.

She has a point, but I can also be a suspiciously awkward human, especially when I’m nervous.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Or you could just speak in an American accent,” she suggests.

I laugh aloud at the thought. It would be reasonable to think that after spending four months here, I’d be able to mimic the accent that surrounds me every day decently well. Sadly, that is not the case. “My American accent is deplorable,” I confess.

“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad,” Aubrey presses as she packs away her makeup. “Just say, ‘Hi, my name is Dan, and I’m from… I don’t know, Naperville, Illinois’ or something,” she tells me.

I repeat the phrase as instructed, and I do actually try to emulate Aubrey’s Midwestern accent. Tom’s inability to hold in his laughter tells me that I wasn’t particularly successful.

“Ok, so we’ll have to work on it,” Aubrey says, ever the optimist.

We head down the stairs and out into the bitterly cold night. The short walk to Greek Street is numbingly painful. We walk quickly, and I’m impressed when Aubrey manages to keep up with us in her high-heeled boots.

When we arrive at the house, Tom’s acquaintance lets us in as promised. The party is crowded, and the speakers pound to the beat of the dance song that I vaguely recognize. I spot a grouping of plastic shot glasses filled with a mysterious red liquid. I pick one up and down it. The alcohol burns my throat, but I’m pleased that the drink isn’t watered down. I take another before offering one to each of my friends. 

I remember very little of the rest of the night. My memory is a swirl of sweaty bodies pressed into tiny rooms, pounding eardrums, and the taste of euphoria laced with regret.

In the morning, the pounding has relocated from my ears to my brain. The light that sneaks around the edges of the closed blinds on the window is bright enough to burn my eyes. I somehow manage to extract myself from my bed in time to not be late for my meeting with Phil.

“You don’t look so good,” he says to me in greeting.

“That’s an overly kind way to put it,” I reply. “I look like shit. I feel like shit.”

“Are you hungover?” Phil asks. He sounds surprised, though I don’t know why.

“Yup,” I say while keeping my eyes closed. The fluorescent lights in this room are far too bright for me to handle right now. Phil sighs, but doesn’t openly criticize my behavior. The silence stretches on until it becomes mildly uncomfortable. “Go on Phil, do your worst,” I challenge him, managing to slightly open one eye. Even if he’s not going to scold me for my underage drinking, he’ll certainly have something to say about all of his twitter followers finding out about his IRL college life.

“What are you talking about, Dan? Is there some reason that I should be mad at you?” he asks knowingly.

“Cut the crap, Phil,” I say, “How much trouble are we in?”

“None, actually,” he says. His words are shocking enough for me to open both of my eyes and properly look at him. His expression seems perfectly sincere, if a little smug.

“Explain,” I demand.

“Well, I had a meeting with the station manager on Monday morning, and I was expecting her to be angry that we crashed the server, but she wasn’t. Apparently the last half hour of the show had some of the best rating that the station has ever seen, until the website crashed, at least.”

“I mean, that’s not entirely surprising,” I comment.

“No, but what was surprising is that she petitioned the university administration to make the IT people give us more bandwidth as soon as possible.”

“Nice! So we don’t have to cancel the show?” Up until now, that seemed like a strong possibility.

“No, not at all,” Phil confirms. “Mallard Radio is prepared to welcome the Youtube fangirls with open arms if it means that their program seems more successful.” This makes sense, of course. Ratings are ratings. “I also spoke with my faculty advisor,” Phil continues.

“Was she upset about the Youtube thing?”

“Sort of, but not in the way that I was expecting. Basically, she was mad that I hadn’t told her sooner.”

“Really?” I ask. Phil had always made it sound like having a semi-well-known Youtube channel would preclude him from employment with any reputable media organization.

“Yeah, I was shocked,” he tells me. “But she said that Youtube is becoming more and more mainstream, and that it will certainly help me stand out from other candidates for graduate programs and jobs in the future.”

“Hmm,” I say. I’m starting to feel tired again now that the initial shock of Phil’s good news has started to wear off.

“Do you need to get some coffee before we start working?” Phil asks.

“That probably wouldn’t be a bad idea,” I reply.

“Have you eaten any food today?”

“Nope,” I answer. It’s only just after 11 AM, and he’s damn lucky that I even showed up on time.

“We should just go to Huxley, then,” Phil suggests. “They started serving lunch a few minutes ago. Some nice greasy pizza will do wonders for your hangover.”

So we take a half hour break before even beginning our work and head to Huxley South, the all-you-can-eat side of the dining hall.

Phil was right; pizza and coffee were exactly what I needed. By the time we get back to Meriden, I’m feeling much better.

“Everything worked out so much better than I could have ever expected. I’m so happy right now,” Phil says once we’re back in the workroom down the hall from the radio studio. Suddenly, he steps closer to me and throws his arms around my shoulders, drawing me into a tight embrace. I hesitate for a moment, but then choose to encircle my arms around his waist. I don’t know how many opportunities I’ll have to hold him close like this, so I might as well take advantage while I can.

“I know that you told Aubrey about my twitter account, but this has all worked out so well that I’m finding it very difficult to be mad at you,” Phil adds.

“Good,” I say.

As we pull apart, there is a brief moment where we both pause, and I catch him staring at my mouth. My heart begins to pound, and I know that I should say something while I have the chance.

“I don’t understand why you insist on preventing something that we both want to happen,” I begin. “I’m attracted to you, and you’re attracted to me. You’re not my PMAC anymore, and I’m not a resident in your building.”

Phil sighs and avoids making eye contact. “I know,” he admits. “That’s not the real reason that us being together would be a terrible idea.”

I raise my eyebrows, silently questioning him.

“With the radio show, we have to be able to work together no matter what happens,” he continues. If we got together and then broke up, we would still have to see each other on a regular basis. That would definitely be awkward, but I don’t anticipate that being an issue.

“The radio show is only for the semester. I think we can make it work for three months, make  _ us _ work, I mean.” Is this what Haley meant when she said that I just needed to convince him? I hope so.

His eyes meet mine. My heart rate quickens.

“Exactly. It’s only for three months,” Phil says, but he doesn’t seem convinced or even optimistic in the least. “Three months from now, I’ll graduate and you’ll go back to England. And we’ll probably never seen each other again.”

There it is, the incredibly depressing truth of the situation that neither of us has wanted to acknowledge out loud: this relationship that I want so badly comes with a predestined expiration date.

It’s an unfortunate reality, and I recognize that falling for him and then losing him could crush me. But then again, haven’t I always been a glutton for pain?

“So what?” I demand.

“So we shouldn’t,” Phil answers. “We can’t,” he amends.

I nod, though I don’t agree whatsoever.

“Should we go over Internet News for this week?” he asks, directing us back to the task at hand. He sits down at the table and opens his laptop.

I follow suit, and flash him an incredibly fake smile, feeling like a door has just been slammed in my face.

“The Super Bowl is this Sunday, so we might want to find something related to that,” Phil adds.

I make a note of it, though I find it very difficult to even pretend to give a shit about American football - even at the best of times.

 

 


	23. Slippery Slope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). Thank you!

The last week of January was unwelcome in that it brought an end to our long winter break and marked the return of the onslaught of lectures and schoolwork, but the month was kind to us in terms of weather. There was no snow on the ground when I returned to Des Moines, and we received only a light dusting in that first week of the semester. February, on the other hand, has been downright evil. We had more snow last week, and it stuck around for several days. Over the weekend, the snow turned to rain. And now, on Sunday evening, the temperature is expected to drop below freezing while the rain continues.

“A substantial accumulation of ice is expected across all of central and southern Iowa tonight, as the freezing rain continues,” Phil reads out to our listeners. Only a small fraction of them are actually local and might actually care about our weather reports, but we have to read them anyway per the station’s contracts. “The overnight low will be 29 degrees with a wind chill of 18,” he continues. It’s strange to me how quickly my brain has adjusted back to Fahrenheit temperatures. 29 now sounds cold to my ears, though I certainly would rather that it were 29 degrees Celsius outside. “Tomorrow is expected to be overcast, and the ice may or may not melt, as the afternoon high is currently predicted to only reach 33 degrees.”

“That forecast sounds a bit bleak, Phil,” I comment. “Shall we take another song request to distract ourselves from our impending slippery doom?”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, Dan,” he replies. “I’m told we have Katelyn on the line. Hello, Katelyn!”

“Hi, Phil! Hi, Dan!” the caller practically shouts. She sounds like she’s about 14, if I had to guess. I can’t help but wonder if there are any Mallard students still watching our show and what they think of all of these young girls calling in and talking about Phil’s Youtube videos.

“Hello,” I respond. “Are you watching us live on the website?”

“Yeah, I am. This is so cool!” We wave hello to her through the webcam. “I love your videos, Phil! When are you going to make another one with Dan?” That’s something else that our new viewers have latched onto, the fact that they recognize me from that one Q&A video that we did last semester on Phil’s channel.

“Thank you, Katelyn!” Phil says. “I don’t know when we’ll make another video exactly, but I’d like to at some point.”

I happen to glance over at Aubrey and see that she’s giving me a knowing glare. “Yeah, we’re still trying to work out some of the technical glitches with our radio show, so that’s our main focus right now,” I add. “But you can watch us here every week!”

“Yeah, definitely,” the girl agrees.

“Did you have a song that you’d like to request?” Phil asks.

“Yeah, could you play something by Green Day?”

“Absolutely. Here’s Green Day’s  _ Still Breathing _ from their new album Revolution Radio,” I announce, reading off of the note that Aubrey passed to me. Personally, I would have chosen an older, more classic Green Day song like 21 Guns or something, but Aubrey’s more concerned with making sure that we play popular music so as to not alienate our young audience.

While the song plays out, Phil and I attempt to entertain the web viewers by having a competition to see who can hop across the studio on one leg the fastest without falling over. We use a few chairs and boxes to create a makeshift obstacle course. Neither of us actually falls over, though Phil comes close once. Even with that near mishap, he’s able to beat me on time.

We take a few more requests from Phil’s Youtube fans, and close out the last half hour of the show without any issues. We wave goodbye to the cameras, end the broadcast, and pack up our things.

“You two can head out, I still have a few things to finish up here,” Aubrey tells us. I know that she’s just trying to find an excuse for me and Phil to be alone together, for us to talk. But Phil is having none of it.

“We can wait a few minutes,” Phil declares. “It’s going to be really slippery out there; I want to make sure that you make it back in one piece.” The walk back to the dorms is less than half of a mile; how dangerous could it possibly be? But I feel like I have to go along with Phil’s decision regardless.

“Yeah, we can’t have our producer fall and crack her head open. Then we might actually have to multitask during our show,” I add.

We wait for Aubrey to send a few emails and pack up her things. Once we make our way to the doors of Meriden, the true need for Phil’s caution becomes apparent. The concrete steps from the building to the pavement are covered in a thick sheet of ice. The tree branches are weighted down with their new frozen burden. The pavement, which slopes downhill from Meriden toward the freshman dorms and the pharmacy buildings looks more like a small stream that’s been frozen over.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

“They didn’t even salt the sidewalks?” Aubrey asks in disbelief. One major downside to life at Mallard University is that the grounds crew tends to only do something about the winter weather after the storm has already passed.

“They probably figured that it would wash away before it started to freeze,” Phil reasons.

Aubrey, ever the bravest of the three of us, carefully steps down the stairs. Gripping onto the handrail for dear life, she makes it to the bottom without incident, but her feet start to slide out from under her. She regains her balance, but only because she is still holding the railing. Phil follows her lead, but when he makes it to the bottom of the stairs, he loses his footing and ends up falling on his arse.

“I’m okay,” he tells us over the sound of the still falling rain.

“I’m not liking these odds,” I say from the top of the stairs. Phil hasn’t even attempted to stand back up.

“We really just need to make it over to the grass,” Aubrey concludes. “That should give us more traction. Then we’ll only have to cross the sidewalk one more time to get to the door of Harlan. Dan and I can take the skywalk back to Carpenter from there.”

“You know what,” Phil begins, but then never actually tells us “what”. Instead, he crawls across the ice on his hands and knees, and then stands up on the grassy side of the pavement. Aubrey follows his lead while I attempt to descend the steps. I manage to make it down and across without incident.

As we’re walking across Henderson Commons, the entirety of campus suddenly goes black. All of the buildings and the lights along the walkways have lost power. It’s so dark that I can’t see two feet in front of my face. We all stop walking, not wanting to slam face-first into one of the trees that we should be nearing soon.

“Just give it a second, the backup generators should kick in,” Phil tells us. The power went out on campus at least once during a thunderstorm last fall, but I hardly even noticed because of the generators.

We wait for probably a full minute, but nothing happens. Phil takes a few tentative steps forward with his hands extended out in front of him. Aubrey and I follow. We come to another stretch of pavement, but the ice isn’t as thick here, so we’re able to carefully shuffle across. There are still no lights on in Harlan Hall when we come to the front door. The electronic scanner that should unlock the door for Phil also isn’t working.

“Shouldn’t these things have battery backups?” Aubrey asks.

Luckily, the lobby and front desk area are swarming with people, so when Phil knocks on the door, someone opens it for us.

“Phil! Oh, thank god,” says the girl who opened the door. I vaguely recognize her as the Harlan RA that I met on Thanksgiving.

“Why aren’t the generators kicking in?” Phil asks her.

“We don’t know. Steve’s on the phone with Mallard Security. He’s trying to see if there’s anything they can do to help.”

We make our way through the crowd of people toward the front desk. “You all need to go back to your rooms!” Phil’s coworker shouts at her residents as we walk by. “We can’t have this many people in the lobby!”

“How can I help, Melissa?” Phil asks.  

“Right now, we need crowd control and a head count. We need to know who is here and who isn’t for all of the buildings. They need extra help over in Carpenter. Last I heard, they only have one RA in the building right now. I need to find one of my residents to stick by the door and let people in, then I’ll work on getting people back upstairs.”

“Okay, Aubrey, go over to your floor and start making a list of who is here,” Phil tells her.

She nods, and starts making her way toward the stairs so that she can go up and over into our building. I start to follow Aubrey; just assuming that Phil wants me to help her.

“Wait, Dan, I need you to help me with something too,” Phil says.

“Oh, okay.”

“I’m guessing that the Carpenter lobby is just as crowded as it is here. I need you to go over there and tell everyone that they need to stay in their rooms, or at least on their floors. We need to be able to keep track of them, so don’t be afraid to be loud and assertive if necessary.”

Me? Assertive? Who is he kidding? “Doesn’t that sound  more like a job for Aubrey?” I ask.

Phil shakes his head. “I trust you,” he tells me.

Since when? And since when does he not trust Aubrey?

“Please?” he asks me, looking me straight in the eyes. And how could I ever say no to those eyes?

So, that’s how I end up pushing through a crowd of people, using my phone as a torch to navigate my way back into my own building, shoving my way through another crowd of people, and climbing to stand on top of a table in the Carpenter lobby. “Listen!” I find myself shouting, “You all need to go back upstairs, RIGHT NOW!”

For some reason, people actually listen to me, and the crowd thins out significantly.

“Hey, man, did you hear what happened?” I hear Tom ask from behind me. I climb down from the table and turn to face him. “Some old lady slid down the hill and crashed her car into the campus’ mini-power station thing across the street. It was wicked! We watched it happen from the window. I just wish we had filmed it somehow.”

“Oh, wow, is she okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, she seemed fine. She must have done some serious damage, though.”

I walk up to the second floor with Tom once the lobby has mostly cleared out. We find the majority of our neighbors sitting in the hallway being lorded over by Aubrey, who is jotting down names in a spiral notebook. We check in with her, and then I spot Phil stepping out of the stairwell. He’s speaking to someone on the phone, but he gives me a thumbs-up before turning around and leaving. The poor old lady must not have done too much damage, because the power kicks back on less than five minutes later.

After a rather strange end to my weekend, I return to my room, wondering what I ever did to earn Phil’s trust, and how I might use it to my advantage. 

On Monday evening, my Movement class takes a trip to the local art museum. We're meant to be observing the way that artists convey movement with brush strokes or the arrangement of a sculpture or something, but I think that most of us are just glad to not be sitting in a classroom for almost three hours.

The Des Moines Art Center turns out to be a relatively small white building, with a modern design. It’s a short drive to the southwest of campus, and I was able to get a ride with a girl in my class named Sarah. She’s a sophomore, I think, and was kind enough to cram four of us freshmen into her tiny Honda Civic.

Our professor directs our attention to a Georgia O’Keeffe painting of a flower and talks about the vibrant flow of color, and the subtle asymmetry of the image. The three American football players that are only taking the class to fulfill their art requirement to graduate snicker about how the painting looks like a vagina.

We discuss a few more paintings that are hung along the gallery wall before moving to look at a Rodin in the center of the room. The life-sized bronze statue depicts a naked man shielding his face with his hand. His face, and his whole body really, are twisted in agony. The professor explains that the piece was a study for The Burghers of Calais. The full ensemble consists of six bronze figures depicting the six men that chose to sacrifice themselves in order to save their city, which was under siege by the English during the Hundred Year’s War. Edward III offered to spare Calais’ citizens from starvation, if their leaders would in turn, hand themselves over to be executed. One of the twelve original casts of the work is installed in London near the Houses of Parliament. I know that I saw it on some school trip, but I never gave the story much thought until now. Maybe it’s because of the way several of my classmates turn to look at me reproachfully while our professor tells the story, as if I was somehow personally responsible for the actions of this English king from the fourteenth century.

After this, we are permitted to roam about the museum and explore at our leisure. Most of my classmates venture off and look at other pieces, but I remain drawn to the Rodin. I walk around the statue and observe that the emotion of the piece changes depending on the angle from which it is seen. This man is dreading what he thinks will be the final moments of his life, and I find myself wondering if he is mourning the wonderful life that he’s leaving behind, or perhaps lamenting the chances that he never took. I wonder too if the angle that the work is viewed from affects that interpretation.

Do I see the possibility of Phil and I differently than he does, simply because we are looking at the idea from a different perspective? Can I somehow convince him that he doesn’t want to become this man who is filled with regret over a life not fully lived? If he trusts me to order people around on his behalf, if he trusts me more than he trust Aubrey - despite my many shortcomings, can he trust me on this?

 

 


	24. When You Least Expect It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing!
> 
> And to everyone who has stuck around and still reads my chapters every week, thanks for sticking around as long as you have.

Another snowstorm blankets our campus with eight inches of fluffy white powder on Tuesday night. Thankfully, the ice had a chance to melt before then, so walking to class isn’t as treacherous as it could be. Still, the novelty of snow seems to have worn off for just about everyone, and the picturesque scenery isn’t nearly enough to justify the bitterly cold wind that makes it difficult to even breathe outside. God, I hate Iowa.

Aubrey sends me a Facebook message during my video production class on Wednesday morning. It’s a welcome distraction from Dr. Conrad’s lecture.

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Are you going to the broadcast awards thing on Friday?

**Dan Howell:** what broadcast awards thing?

**Aubrey Tompkins:** You know, the awards ceremony for the programs from last semester? The one that’s at a fancy hotel downtown?

**Dan Howell:** …?

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Do you even read the weekly CJMS  emails?

No, I care very little about what events are happening in the College of Journalism and Media Studies.

**Dan Howell:** lol

**Aubrey Tompkins:** You’re not going with Phil?  

**Dan Howell:** nope

Of course not. Why would he want to spend any more time with me than absolutely necessary?

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Oh, that’s weird. Do you want to come as my date?

**Dan Howell:** you’re not bringing tom?

_ You know, your boyfriend? _ I want to add.

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Nah, he wouldn’t care and he won’t know anyone there. You will, though.

**Dan Howell:** just phil probably

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Exactly.

I roll my eyes at my computer screen.

**Dan Howell:** if phil wanted me to be there he would have invited me himself

**Aubrey Tompkins:** I think you’re wrong. Besides, I’ve been told that there will be lots of alcohol at this thing.

**Dan Howell:** which they’re not going to let us drink

**Aubrey Tompkins:** No, but Phil can drink. And we all know how alcohol lowers one’s inhibitions ;-)

**Dan Howell:** aubrey, no

She spares me the embarrassment of trying to convince me further. I don’t know why she’s decided that it’s her goal in life to play matchmaker, but I think she’s going to be sadly disappointed when this never works out.

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Do you have better plans? Give me one good reason why you can’t go.

Because she knows damn good and well that I have no life outside of class, the radio show, and hanging out with her and Tom occasionally.

**Dan Howell:** isn’t the fact that i don’t want to a good enough reason?

**Aubrey Tompkins:** No. The bus leaves from the Oelwein parking lot at 8:30. Be there and dress nicely.

 

On Friday evening, I dig through the back of my wardrobe and unearth a dress shirt and the only tie that I bothered to bring to America with me. I pair the white shirt and black tie with my usually black skinny jeans. People might think that I’m trying to be edgy, but I’m really just being lazy. Besides, it’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone.

I walk up to the small crowd of people waiting outside of Oelwein at 8:28 and spot Aubrey’s red hair instantaneously. She’s wearing a black peacoat over a lacy black and white dress. She looks nice, but I’m sure she must be freezing.

“You made it!” she says to me in greeting.

“Yeah, like you said, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

A white charter bus pulls into the parking lot, and we get on. I recognize a few of the other people on the bus from Broadcast Club or from hanging around the basement of Meriden with Phil, but I don’t know any of them particularly well. Most notably, Phil isn’t here. But he has a car, so maybe he drove himself downtown for some reason?

“I’m surprised that there aren’t more people going to this,” I comment once the bus pulls away from the curb.

“Oh, there were probably more people on the first bus that left at 8,” Aubrey says. “There’s a bus every half hour until 12:30 so that people can come and go as they please.”

I had no idea that this event was such a big deal. On the way, Aubrey explains that it may be advertised as a time to recognize everyone’s accomplishments over the past year, but that it’s really just an excuse for the faculty and the upperclassmen to get drunk and party together. We pull up to the hotel and take the lift all the way to the top floor. The view of the downtown lights from the panoramic windows on the 12 th story is like nothing I would have ever expected to see in a middle-of-nowhere city like this one.

The ballroom is bustling with people when we walk in. We skip the line for the bar and look for a place to sit at one of the large circular tables. Aubrey introduces me to a few of her producer friends that work on other shows, and we sit and chat with them for a while. She somehow seems to know everyone, and I’ll never understand how.

At some point, one of the other girls suggests that we should go get appetizers before the program starts.

“So what exactly is going on between you and Phil?” Aubrey asks me out of nowhere while we’re waiting in the rather long line.

I glance over my shoulder at Aubrey’s friends who are standing in line in front of us, but they seem to be engrossed in their own conversation. “There’s nothing going on between me and Phil,” I insist.

“But you want there to be?”

She already knows that I do. “Well, yeah,” I admit.

“So then why is there still nothing going on?”

“Because it’s complicated,” I tell her. Phil has listed many reasons why nothing is happening. Most of them are utter bullshit, but he has his reasons nevertheless.

“Look, I’m trying to help you out here, but I’m having a hard time doing that because I don’t understand what’s really going on. So would you please just tell me?” She asks. “Besides, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone to talk about it with?”

She’s right, of course. Her efforts thus far have been futile because she doesn’t understand that it’s already a lost cause. I sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Start at the beginning,” Aubrey commands.

So I do. I tell her that I’ve been attracted to Phil basically since the moment I met him, and that we started spending more and more time together last semester because of the radio show. I tell her about the times when we nearly kissed, and the time that we actually did. And finally, I tell her about how Phil ended last semester by giving me a laundry list of reasons why it would be a terrible idea for us to actually be involved.

We finally make it to the row of tables with the food, and I fill my plate with egg rolls and mozzarella sticks while I add that Phil’s main concern is that we’d only have a few months together before the end of the semester, and how that’s apparently just too tragic to bear. “So, now I’m miserable, but there’s nothing to be done about it,” I conclude.

“Don’t be stupid; of course there is! You’ve just got to convince him that you’re as miserable as he is,” she tells me.

“You think that Phil is miserable?” I ask. I’m also fairly certain that Phil knows that I’m miserable, but that wasn’t the shocking part of what she had just said.

“I know that he is,” Aubrey states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She turns and looks to the side. My eyes follow her gaze, and that’s when I see him standing in the corner of the room talking to Dr. Torres, his former cohost Shane, and a few other people that I don’t recognize. Phil is smiling, but it looks as fake as can be. He’s wearing a rather smart-looking suit, and he has a cocktail in his hand.

We exit the food line, and Aubrey starts walking directly toward Phil. I know that there’s really no point in trying to stop her now. We join the circle, and Dr. Torres introduces us to her husband, Rob, and two of her colleagues that I’ve heard of before but never met. Phil look surprised to see me here, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“Shane, I haven’t seen you in forever, how have you been?” Aubrey asks exuberantly, though they hardly know each other. They exchange pleasantries, and I know that she’s only trying to get me to talk to Phil.

“What are you drinking?” I ask him.

“I’m not exactly sure,” he says, “something with orange and rum. It’s good to see you, Dan,” he adds with a smile, though we last saw each other earlier today at our regular Friday meeting.

“I think the program is going to start soon, so we should probably go sit down,” Aubrey suggests. “Shane, why don’t you come and sit at my table so that we can catch up? Although, there isn’t an extra seat, I don’t think. Hmm, Dan, would you mind if Shane takes your spot?”

So that way, I’ll have to sit with Phil. I’ll give Aubrey credit, she is cunning. And I'm going to owe her big for this. “No, that’s fine,” I answer.

“You can sit with us,” Phil offers.

“Thanks.”

And so I find myself seated at a table filled with several faculty members, Phil, and myself. The chair of the video production department takes the microphone and after a few remarks, presents several awards for projects and shows created over the last calendar year. Phil wins something for a short film that he made for one of his classes in the spring of his Junior year. Dr. Conrad, my video production professor, wins the Faculty of the Year award. Dr. Torres excuses herself from our table, as she is to present the radio awards. Phil and Shane’s show from last semester is nominated for best student-run show, but doesn’t win. After the awards are given out, there is some sort of trivia game where student volunteers are asked to come on stage and compete for Starbucks gift cards. But not even Starbucks is incentive enough for me to subject myself to such humiliation for the entertainment of others.

No one at our table pays much attention to the game. Dr. Torres’ husband asks one of the other faculty members how they’re liking Des Moines. This is their first year teaching at Mallard, I gather. He tells them that he hated Des Moines when he first moved here, but that he was willing to make the sacrifice so that his wife could follow her dreams. “You make sacrifices for the things you love, you know? Love is always worth it in the end,” he says. I restrain myself from looking at Phil in that moment, but I can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s thinking of me.

As the program ends, quite a long line forms at the bar. It seems that everyone who is of age has a drink in their hand, and several of the faculty members are acting quite tipsy.

“Are the drinks free?” I ask Phil.

“Yeah,” he says. “This event costs the college a fortune every year, but they know that the alcohol and the free transportation from campus is why everyone comes.”

“You should get another then,” I suggest. “Better yet, get two, and give one to me.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea, Dan.”

“I’m kidding, I don’t expect you to actually give me alcohol at an official university function.”

“No, that wouldn’t be a good idea either. But what I meant was that it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to have another when I’ve already had three and didn’t eat any dinner.”

“Why not? It’s not like you have to drive home.”

Phil shakes his head like I just don’t understand. “I’ll be right back,” he says as he stands up from the table at walks away. He heads out of the ballroom and into the hallway, but turns towards the bathrooms rather than towards the lift.

“How’s it going?” Aubrey says from behind me, making me jump in my seat.

“Jesus, you scared the crap out of me,” I tell her.

“Sorry,” she says.

“There haven’t been any new developments, so don’t get your hopes up.”

“Well of course there hasn’t been, not sitting here,” Aubrey states. The few adults that are still sitting at the table are engrossed in other conversations and thankfully don’t notice her comment. “Go corner him in the hallway before he comes back,” she suggests.

“What?”

“Listen you moron, I did not just spend over an hour making small talk with Shane so that you could just sit here and waste this opportunity. Now go!” she commands.

“Alright, alright!”

I walk out into the hallway and lean against the wall opposite the men’s restroom. I get more than a few curious glances from a few of the girls that walk by, but I simply avoid making eye contact and try to suppress my own awkwardness as much as possible.

“Why are you so afraid of being intoxicated around me?” I ask Phil when he steps through the door.

“What are you doing here? Were you waiting for me?” Phil asks, understandable perplexed by my presence.

“Just answer the question, Phil.”

His gaze darkens. “You know why, Dan.”

“No, I don’t,” I say. “God, I don’t understand you. You say that you are afraid of inevitably hurting me, but what you don’t seem to understand is that you already have. And I’m pretty sure that you’re just hurting yourself as well.” My eyes hold his gaze, and he doesn’t even try to look away and pretend that what I’ve just said isn’t true. It gives me the courage to continue on. “Last week you said that you trust me. So trust me on this: if there is something that you want in life, you deserve to have it. Even if it’s only for a little while, that doesn’t matter. If there is an opportunity staring you in the face, then you should take it.”

I stare at him, hoping to embed my argument directly into his mind. He blinks, and then pauses for what feels like an eternity. Then he steps forward and places his hand on the back of my neck, fluidly drawing me in for a kiss. My heart pounds in my chest, but thankfully, my lips move against his automatically despite my shock.

I taste the alcohol on his lips. He quickly deepens the kiss, our tongues sliding against one another. Phil’s other arm finds my waist, and I wrap my arms around his back, drawing him closer. My fingers curl and clutch at the fabric of his jacket.

He pulls away suddenly, and I brace myself for however he’s going to talk his way out of it this time. But he doesn’t. “What do you say we catch the next bus back to campus?” he asks.

“Okay,” I agree.

We grab our coats and take the lift downstairs. I don’t even consider saying goodbye to Aubrey; she'll know where I’ve gone. We’re not alone on the bus, but Phil risks holding my hand anyway. His thumb caresses the side of my hand gently and reassuringly.

When we get back to Mallard, we walk toward the dorms quickly, eager to escape the cold. Phil heads for the Harlan door, and I stick with him. Neither of us questions why or what is happening. I silently follow him up the stairs and to his door.

As he pauses to find his key and turn the lock, I ask, “Are you going to pretend that this didn’t happen tomorrow, or tell me that it shouldn’t have?”

“No, I’m not going to do that,” he promises, turning to kiss me again.

This is so far removed from how I thought my night would end. I suppose that sometimes, good things happen when they’re least expected.

 

 


	25. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, this chapter was betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). Thank you!

Waking up in my dorm room the next morning is a struggle with disillusionment. Both Nate and I apparently forgot to shut the blinds before crawling into our beds late last night, so the bright morning sun is allowed to come streaking through the window unimpeded by either clouds or human intervention. Thanks to the harsh light, I’m awake much earlier than I strictly need to be. Thanks to Phil, my mind is already racing.

We kissed last night. I know that that happened. He kissed me, and we left the party together. I followed him back to his room without a second thought. He promised me that it would be different this time, that he wouldn’t change his mind after the alcohol had cleared his system. And god, I want to believe him, of course I do. But the unrelenting ray of sunlight that not even my eyelids and duvet can fully block is a jolt of pragmatism.

Perhaps I would feel differently if we had slept together last night. Then, at the very least, I would know that I had had that one night with him, and I think I could be satisfied with that, even not knowing if that was all I was ever going to get. But no, Phil did not allow me that option. Once we were inside his room, we continued kissing, and eventually removed a few layers of clothing. I ended up on his bed with him lying on top of me, and I relished the fact that that was further than I had ever gotten with him before. But then he said that we should stop, that we shouldn’t take things too far, too fast. In my memory, it feels like a dream, like I can’t be entirely certain that it actually happened.

Last night, he promised me that he wouldn’t change his mind this time. But the light of a new day has broken, and I can’t help but wonder what else might break with it.

I climb down off of my bed, and swallow down the stomach acid that had risen to the back of my throat. I pick up my phone to check the time – just after 10 AM – and see that I have a text message from Phil:

Good morning, Dan! I hope you have a great Saturday! Do you have plans for dinner this evening?

I stare at the screen for a second, trying to process Phil’s tone and determine what it means. Is he asking me on a date? And then there’s the fact that he typed out my name. The message feels special somehow simply because it’s personalized. He sent the text over two hours ago, and I wonder if he has been nervously awaiting a reply, or if he knows better than to expect me to be awake anytime before midmorning. I quickly type out a reply:

no, I don’t have any dinner plans

By the time I return from the bathroom, I have a reply:

Could I take you out for dinner tonight? Say around 6:30?

Okay, that’s definitely him asking me out on a date.

Yeah, okay. I’ll see you then.

God, and now I’m using complete sentences and proper punctuation in my texts? The message just looked funny without it, but still, what it happening to me?

Great! Looking forward to it!

So many exclamation points, Jesus Christ.

Me too!

It’s not that I’m trying to copy his formatting; I just don’t want him to think that I’m not excited, because I am. Or maybe that swimming sensation in my stomach is more nervousness than excitement. I send another text message, this time to Aubrey:

Are you awake?

She responds almost instantly.

Yes, I’m in the lobby. Come down and tell me everything.

I finish getting dressed and obey her command. I find her at one of the small tables along the edges of the lobby area, diligently typing away on her laptop.

“Hey,” I say, sitting down in the chair opposite her.

“Did you have a good night, last night?” she asks suggestively.

“I did,” I offer, recalling the taste of Phil’s lips and the weight of his body pressed against mine.

“I assume that you ditched me because you went home with Phil, yes? Otherwise, I’m going to be very disappointed in you, Howell.”

“Yeah, I left the party with Phil,” I tell her.

“And?” she goads.

“And… I don’t know, we talked, we kissed...” I didn’t come here to tell Aubrey about last night, I came to ask her advice about today, about this dinner thing.

“Dan, when you texted me, I assumed that it was because you had something new and significant to report.”

“Well, we’re going on a date I think,” I offer.

“You think?”

“He said that he wants to take me out for dinner tonight.”

“Sounds like a date to me,” Aubrey affirms. “Sounds like progress, right?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I say, and I can tell that she’s concerned by my hesitation.

Aubrey studies my face for a moment. “You don’t seem as excited about this as I thought you would be. Was the grass greener on the other side, or are you just nervous?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know what’s going to happen or how it’s all going to work out, you know?”

“Yeah, I felt like that before my first date with Tom.”

“But this is different! I mean, is he going to pay for dinner? Are we going to split the bill? Should I offer to pay for all of it?” I ramble anxiously.

Aubrey looks at me like I’m being ridiculous, and I know that I am. “Wait, have you never been on a date with a guy before?” she asks.

“No, I haven’t,” I tell her. She knows that I’ve dated girls in the past, or at least, I know that I’ve told her about my ex, Haley. She doesn’t know that I’ve fooled around with a few guys in the past, one before I was with Haley, and a few last summer. But those were just snogging sessions and awkward handjobs in dark corners of parties and in club bathrooms for the most part. They weren’t dates; there was no romance, no feelings.

“Oh, well, I’m sure it will be fine. I mean, it’s Phil. You already know him fairly well. If you’re not sure about something, just talk to him about it.”

I nod in agreement, willing myself to believe that it really will be that simple somehow.  “What do you think I should wear?” I ask her.

“I’ll help you pick something out,” she offers. “Don’t worry, everything is going to work out just fine. You’ll see.”

I want so badly to believe her. 

 

I stand in front of the mirror in the second floor men’s restroom and fiddle with the tie that Aubrey insisted I should wear. I have no idea where we’re going or how nicely I should dress, so she said that it would be better to be overdressed than risk being underdressed. I was pacing around my room like a lunatic a few minutes ago, so I decided to come in here. Nate has looked at me a bit strangely a few times today, but he hasn’t actually said anything. I think that maybe he knows better than to ask questions that he doesn't want to know the answers to.

And then I get another text from Phil:

I’m by the Carpenter front desk whenever you’re ready. No rush.

I stick my phone in my pocket and smooth out my fringe one last time before heading downstairs. I find Phil leaning casually against the wall opposite the stairway. He’s wearing a collared shirt underneath a jumper, and pair of black skinny jeans, and dress shoes. Maybe Aubrey wasn’t crazy to suggest the tie.

“Hey, you look nice,” I say, smiling at him.

“Same to you,” he replies. “Shall we?”

We walk outside and across the street to where Phil’s car is usually parked. When we arrive, he walks up to the passenger side with me, and for a moment, I panic and wonder if I’ve subconsciously forgotten which country I’m in and gone to the driver’s side. But that’s not the case. Instead, Phil opens the passenger side door for me.

The gesture makes me feel unsettled. It’s something that I would always do for someone on a first date. “I’m not a girl, Phil,” I snap at him once he sits down next to me.

“I know that,” he says in a soft voice. He sounds hurt, almost. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just… I’m just a bit nervous, and this is a bit different for me,” I tell him.

“Me too,” he says.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, hoping to alleviate some of the tension.

“Do you like seafood?” he asks.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Perfect.”

Phil changes the subject and asks me about my day while we drive to the restaurant. We end up talking about the project that I’m working on for my video production class and how I’m really enjoying video editing. We drive west on the highway for a short time until we reach the posh side of town. I spot a sign for The Waterfront Grill, though there’s no waterfront to be seen.

“It’s difficult to find good seafood here in the Midwest just because of lack of proximity to the ocean, of course,” Phil says. “But this place does a pretty good job of making sure that their stuff is fresh.”

“That’s good,” I say. We walk inside and are greeted by a hostess wearing an elegant black dress. Phil tells her that he has a reservation for two, and she leads us through the sea of white table cloths and tiny flickering candles to our table, which just happens to be right next to a tank full of lobsters.

I tell Phil that I’m glad he chose this place, because I really do enjoy seafood. That leads me into a story about a weekend trip that my family took to Brighton when I was a kid, which was the first time I ever tried prawns. Phil grew up surrounded by seafood in Florida, so I expect him to launch into a story about that, or for him to judge me for not trying prawns until I was 9 years old. Instead, he tells me about some of his family’s summer trips to the Isle of Man when they went to England to visit his grandparents.

It’s still so strange to me that I came all the way to America only to find someone so similar to me. Except that Phil is this weird English/American crossbreed, and that’s not even the half of what makes him so unique. No, I’m certain that I never would have met anyone like him back home.

Phil orders gulf prawns, citing my story as his inspiration. I order seafood alfredo because it comes with both prawns and crab, and because the Huxley version of that sauce is a disgrace to Italian cuisine. The food turns out to be more than worthy of the overpriced atmosphere. We talk about all sorts of random topics, and I don’t know why I ever worried that this would be awkward. There’s a reason that we became fast friends, after all.

At the end of the meal, the waitress brings the bill and places the leather booklet directly between us, but Phil snatches it before I even have a chance to say anything. “I can pay for my half, I don’t mind,” I offer.

Phil shakes his head. “I asked you to come; it’s my treat,” he insists.

“Thank you,” I say.

When we’re walking back to Phil’s Jeep, he asks, “Do you have any plans for the rest of the evening?” I shake my head. “I thought maybe we could go back to my room and watch a movie,” he suggests.

On our way back to campus, we decide to watch another Disney film since we both liked watching Wall-E so much last semester. We settle on Finding Dory this time, as it was just recently added to Netflix and because I pointed out that it fits nicely with the evening’s sea creatures theme. Phil laughs at that, and it’s good to know that he isn’t too put off  by my morbid sense of humor.

We sit side by side on Phil’s narrow bed, and the situation feels familiar and brand new all at the same time. We laugh at one another’s whale impressions, and I’m struck by the notion that I am having a genuinely good time. I went into this expecting – no, hoping, really – that we were going to fuck tonight, but for now at least, I’m enjoying Phil’s gentler, more romantic approach.

The film ends, and we talk for a while, and kiss for a while, too. “I’ve had a really good time tonight,” I say quietly while our mouths are mere centimeters apart.

“Me too,” he says. “Goodnight, Dan.” And I guess that’s my signal to leave. Somehow, I’m not even disappointed.

“Goodnight,” I return along with one more quick kiss.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”  

Later that night as I’m trying to fall asleep, my mind keeps racing with endless possibilities of what the future might hold for Phil and me. I already have such strong feelings for him, and the way that he looks at me from time to time suggests that he feels the same. My mind also drifts back to the lobsters in that tank at the restaurant, staring out at the meals on the tables that they are fated to one day become. I wonder if they have any idea just how doomed they are.

I remember being taught in psychology class that if you throw a frog into a pot of boiling water, the frog will instantly know that it is in serious trouble, and that it will jump out of the pot. However, if you put a frog in a pot of lukewarm water and slowly turn up the temperature, the frog will not sense the danger in the incremental changes until it is too late. I’m not sure why we were learning about cooking frogs in a psychology lecture, but I think it had something to do with sensation and perception. I suppose that you can throw a lobster into a pot of boiling water without much risk of it escaping, although I’m not sure if that is because it is not as smart as a frog, or simply because lobsters can’t jump.

I’m not sure if Phil and I have just been thrown into boiling water, or if we’ve been slowly simmering this whole time. Either way, we’ve found ourselves in an intense situation. Except that the metaphor is really a fallacy, because if we’re in hot water, it’s because we jumped in voluntarily. 

 

 


	26. Pancake Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Note: Maple syrup and golden syrup are actually a bit different. Maple syrup is traditionally a natural product comprised mostly of sucrose. Golden syrup is sweeter and primary made of fructose and glucose. Natural maple syrup (the expensive kind, not the kind in the Mrs. Butterworth bottles) is said to be slightly healthier.

The radio show the following Sunday is actually quite successful. Phil and I seem to have found a comfortable, friendly dynamic on the air. We joke with one another playfully, the tension between us having been mostly resolved. I catch him smiling at me while the songs play, and I know that Aubrey catches it, too. She sits in the producer’s seat across the desk and smiles at me knowingly when she takes sips of her travel mug of tea in between screening our phone calls.

At the bottom of the second hour of the program, Phil reads the weather report, and gleefully informs our listeners that it is expected to be 65 degrees Fahrenheit by the middle of the week. The second half of February has been relatively mild, and even though the unusually warm weather probably won’t last long, it seems that spring is right around the corner.

Phil continues on and reads out a few campus announcements about upcoming events. “The French Club would like to remind you of their upcoming Mardi Gras event on Tuesday at 6 PM in Upper Oelwein. Come enjoy gumbo, jambalaya, and King Cake as well as fun games and crafts!” he concludes.

“Ok, random question, but what actually is Mardi Gras?” I ask, mostly just trying to make conversation. The viewers, particularly Phil’s Youtube followers, tend to enjoy our random conversations.

“Um,” Phil mumbles, clearly a bit caught off guard. “I think that it has something to do with the start of lent. It means Fat Tuesday, right?”

Aubrey nods from the other side of the desk. “Our producer, Aubrey, says yes,” I inform the listeners. “So then, is that the same thing as Pancake Day?” I wonder aloud.

“What’s Pancake Day?” Phil asks me. There’s genuine confusion in his voice. He’s not just asking for the benefit of our audience, he actually doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Considering his parents’ insistence on filling his childhood with English traditions like Bonfire Night and Boxing Day, I’m surprised.

“Pancake Day is possibly the most important holiday event known to mankind across the world,” I babble at him excitedly. Aubrey squints her eyes at me, silently disapproving of my inability to string together words into a grammatically correct sentence.

“Could you be a bit more descriptive, Dan?” Phil asks me.

“Seriously, how do you not know about this? Is Pancake Day not a thing in America?” I glance at Aubrey again, and she seems equally confused.

“No, I don’t think so,” Phil answers.

“I mean, it’s fairly self-explanatory. It’s basically just a day to make copious amounts of pancakes and eat all of them without anyone being able to judge you for stuffing your face full of carbs,” I recount.

“That sounds nice,” Phil admits. “I love pancakes, especially fluffy buttermilk pancakes.”

“Ew, no, Pancake Day is not about your weird, airy American pancakes,” I argue.

“What? How dare you?” Phil asks, turning his face to the side to stare at me disapprovingly. “British pancakes are basically just cr ê pes, right? They’re all flat and thin? What’s the point?”

“Listen, I’ve had your American pancakes at the dining hall, here on campus, and they’re absolutely nothing special,” I declare.

“Ok, yes, dining hall pancakes really aren’t anything special, but real buttermilk pancakes? They’re amazing; they’re like eating a buttery cloud.”

By this point, Aubrey’s waving her arms at us and making a concerned face. Our relatable banter has turned into a concerning off-topic side conversation. We need to take a song request. “Since I have apparently never experienced this buttery cloud, I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree for the time being,” I say. “It looks like we have a Twitter request here from Clara, who would like to hear something by All Time Low,” I read off of the note.

“Since you’ve given us the choice of song, we’ll go with a classic,  _ Dear Maria, Count Me In _ ,” Phil announces just as I press the button to start the song.

“What the hell was that?” Aubrey asks during the song. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled that you two are… cordial again, but please try to remember that you’re on air.”

“Sorry, Aubrey,” I say. “Thanks for keeping us on track.”

“So how are we going to resolve our pancake dispute, Dan?” Phil asks after the song ends, and I can feel Aubrey rolling her eyes without needing to watch it happen.

“I dunno, Phil, maybe we can have everyone vote in a Twitter poll or something,” I suggest, because I think that’s where he wants me to go with this. I know I’ll lose, though. The majority of our audience is American, and they’re going to remain loyal to the food they know and love.

“But how are our American listeners going to understand what’s different about a British pancake just from us talking about it?”

“I think they’re capable of using Google, Phil,” I snap before I actually process what he’s trying to say.

“Well, yes, but you can’t taste things via Google,” he says. And now I’m quite confused as to what he’s talking about.

“No, you can’t, Phil. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“I think that we should make a Youtube video out of this,” Phil suggests. “We could each make a batch of pancakes, one British and one American, and we could try both of them and decide which is better. And we could include the recipes so that everyone watching could make them as well, if they want.”

“Ok, yeah, we could do that,” I agree.

“Alright then, look for that video coming soon to Youtube dot com forward slash Amazingphil.”

We speak to a caller after that, who tells us that she is very excited about this pancake video. We play her song request, and I read out the Internet news, which includes a story about a dog that was successfully taught how to ride a surfboard in California. We then play a few more songs before closing out the show.

“What are you doing tomorrow evening?” Phil asks as we’re packing up to leave the studio.

“I have my stupid fucking movement class at 4,” I tell him.

“After that, then?” he asks. “I’d like to film tomorrow and then edit and upload on Tuesday so that the video will go up on Pancake Day if possible.”

“Yeah, sure,” I agree.

The prospect of spending the evening filming a video with Phil carries me through my Monday. Luckily, we’re able to commandeer the Carpenter kitchen for our project. 

“How was your class?” Phil asks me as I drop my backpack in the corner of the room.

“Ugh, so boring,” I tell him. “We had an hour long debate about whether or not dance can be art.”

Phil lets out a small laugh. “And which side were you on?” he asks.

“Neither, because I really don’t know anything about classical dance,” I explain. “It was mostly this group of girls arguing that ballet counts as art in the same way that opera or theatre count as art, which I would tend to agree with. But then, the group of dude-bros that sit in the back were arguing that ballet is not art, but that football is.”

“What?”

“I know, so stupid,” I conclude. “What was really frustrating was that the professor just let them go on and on forever because she ‘always appreciated a good intellectual debate,’ or some bullshit,” I say, putting air quotes around her words.

“Well, at least it’s over now,” Phil offers. “Here, come make sure that I bought all of the right things,” he says, gesturing to the plastic grocery bag sitting on the counter. I send him the recipe that I wanted to use this morning, and he went shopping while I was in class.

I look inside and find the flour, milk, eggs, and butter that I need for the pancakes as well as the sugar, lemon, and nutella for toppings. “That looks like everything. How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing, they’re supplies for my video,” he says while mounting the camera to the tripod.

“Yeah, but I’m going to be eating the pancakes, too,” I argue.

“You’re a guest on my channel,” he says while stepping away from the camera and toward me. “It’s my job to supply you with whatever you need for the video, and it’s polite to feed you, too.” He takes another step forward, and leans in to place a quick kiss on my lips.

“Thanks,” I say. “What was that for, exactly?”

“Just because I can,” Phil says as he finishes setting up the camera. I line up the ingredients, and open the cupboards to look for a mixing bowl and measuring cups. 

“Hey, guys,” Phil says to the camera once we’re ready to film. “I’m back with my friend Dan to settle a dispute that came up on our radio show this past Sunday about one of the most important things in life: pancakes.”

I then explain that we’re making pancakes for Pancake Day, and that British pancakes are - of course, far superior to the American version in every possible way. I also mention that I’ve chosen a Delia Smith recipe, because nothing is more British than Delia Smith.

“Let's get cooking!” I say to the camera. “Alright, the first step for the British pancakes is to sift the flour and make a well in the center of the bowl. We probably don’t have a sieve, do we?”

“No, I don’t think so. Does that actually matter?”

“Probably not. Screw the sieve; just make a well,” I say, and make a divot in the center of the pile of flour in the bowl. I then beat in the eggs and milk with a fork, because we also don’t have a whisk.

“Is the pan hot?” I ask Phil, since/ seeing as it hasn’t been on the hob for very long.

Without thinking, Phil flattens his hand against the surface of the pan. “No,” he answers.

“If you’re going to try making these at home, make sure you have a responsible adult supervising you so that you don’t melt your flesh off like Phil just tried to do,” I say to the camera.

I melt the butter in the pan while Phil works on mixing up his batter.

“I think the only difference between our recipes is that mine used buttermilk instead of regular milk and it has baking powder and baking soda in it to make them fluffy,” Phil concludes.

“What is buttermilk?” I ask, hoping that it’s not a stupid question. “Is it just milk mixed with a bit of butter or something?”

“No, I think it’s whatever is left over after you churn cream to make butter,” Phil tells me. 

“So it’s like anti-butter?” 

“Basically, yeah,” Phil agrees with a small laugh. 

I add some of the melted butter to my mixture, and set aside the rest for lubricating the pan. “Is it going to confuse people that we’re making both recipes at the same time? Like, if they’re trying to follow along?”

“We’ll put links to the recipes in the description,” he says to the camera. “Follow those, not us. We don’t actually know what we’re doing.”

“Good point.”

“So what’s the next step for yours, Dan?” Phil prompts me.

“Next, we need to use the ladle of destiny to spread a thin layer of batter across the bottom of the pan,” I say. He films a close-up of this step with his phone. “And then we let that cook until it’s golden brown and lovely on the bottom.”

“That’s huge,” Phil comments. “How are you going to flip that with a spatula?”

“Who said I had to use a spatula?” I ask. I’m not actually an expert at flipping pancakes using only the pan, but I’m not going to pass up this opportunity to show off. Flipping the first pancake goes surprisingly well, and earns me a surprised “wow” from Phil. The second, on the other hand, is a complete disaster. The fucking thing folds over on itself in the air, and breaks up into several pieces when it grazes the side of the pan.

“Who said I need a spatula,” Phil mocks after he’s finished laughing at me.

“It exploded! I got attacked by the pancake!” I say in my own defense. “Also, I only have enough batter for one or two more pancakes. What kind of bullshit is that, Delia?” I ask angrily. “If you want  to make this recipe, I’d definitely recommend doubling it for the proper Pancake Day experience.”

I plate my pancakes and top them with lemon juice and sugar, since that’s what the recipe recommended. I’ll save the nutella for the extra pancake that we can both share. While I'm working on this, Phil starts cooking his pancakes. His batter is significantly thicker than mine, and he spoons it into smaller circles on the pan.

“Here’s the magical part,” Phil says after they’ve been cooking for a minute or so. He flips one of the pancakes, and then pokes a hole in the top of it with the corner of the spatula. The pancake instantly puffs up with air, and I manage to film the phenomenon with Phil’s iPhone.  “See? Isn’t that so cool?” he asks.

“Actually, yeah,” I admit. “I had no idea they did that.”

He adds two of his pancakes to each plate and covers them with a bit of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup, which looks to be a slightly darken version of golden syrup.

“And now for the ultimate taste test,” Phil says, handing me a fork.

I cut into his warm, fluffy pancake and take a bite. It’s so delicious that I moan a little bit while eating it. What’s even more surprising is that Phil seems equally impressed with my alternative.

“I guess this is a good lesson in multiculturalism, kids,” I say, looking for a way to close out the video. “You should try different foods from other countries, because you might even like them. And you should make some pancakes! They’re perfect for Pancake Day, or for Sunday brunch, or Christmas, or –”

“Yesterday?” Phil adds randomly.

“That’s the one day you can’t make pancakes,” I chastise him. He laughs, but looks slightly embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout at you,” I say, rubbing my hand on his shoulder gently in an effort to reassure him.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll have to cut that out of the video, though,” he says.

“No, you should leave it in, it’s funny!”

“No, I don’t mean my flub. You're right; it’s funny, so it can stay. I mean that I’ll have to cut out you touching my shoulder,” he clarifies.

“Oh, right.” Because this relationship, or whatever it is, cannot be public knowledge. It would be unprofessional for our radio show audience to know, and it would be incredibly awkward for Phil’s Youtube followers come summer. Hell, it’s going to be incredibly awkward for us come summer when he goes off to grad school and I go back to England. There’s a good chance we’ll never see each other ever again.

We knew that going in, but that doesn’t make it any less depressing to think about, especially when I was having such a good time with Phil.

 

 


	27. The Beating of My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter is going up a little later than usual. I just got back from a weekend road trip to see three of my friends. (It was awesome)
> 
> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

Midterms sneak up on me even more than they did last semester. It’s like I fell into this whirlpool of Phil and all sorts of related distractions and then before I knew it, it was the middle of March. On the plus side, it hasn’t snowed in ten days, and this morning, the sun was shining so brightly that it almost felt like spring despite the fact that the temperature was barely above freezing. On the other hand, I have four exams this week, and I’ve really not studied for a single one of them yet. I get a message from Phil as I’m walking to class:

Hey, what are you doing after Conrad’s class?

That lecture, my video production class, ends at 11:50 AM, so I usually swing by the dining hall and grab something to go on my way back to my dorm.

lunch probably

He responds a few moments later. 

I’m working on stuff in the basement. Want to come find me when you’re done and we

can go to Hux South together?

On a day like this, I’d much rather grab something quick from Huxley North and munch on chips while doing a bit of revising before my 2 o’clock audio production class. But I’m not going to say no to Phil.

Dr. Conrad keeps us two minutes over, but only to finish giving us a list of tips to prepare for our midterm exam on Wednesday, so none of us mind. I swing my backpack over one shoulder and head down the stairs to find Phil. I spot him in the corner of the production student lounge, working away on his laptop with his fancy noise-canceling headphones on. He’s probably working on his thesis project. That seems to be taking up quite a bit of his time, as of late.

“Hey,” I say even though I know that he probably can’t hear me. I wave at him to get his attention.

“Hey, how was class?” he asks after pausing the song that he was listening to and pulling off his headphones.

“Not bad,” I tell him.

As he packs up his things, I tell him how I really like Professor Conrad, and that his class is really interesting and enjoyable. I’m glad that Phil recommended it to me.

We exit the building and walk across the green space in the middle of campus toward the dining hall. I’m instantly on board with Phil’s suggestion to eat at Hux South when I see that they have a build-your-own grilled cheese bar today. I order grilled cheese at the sandwich station at Hux North from time to time, but here I can have up to three types of cheese and I can add bacon. Surprisingly, Phil turns his nose up at this option.

“I don’t really like cheese,” he tells me.

I’m shocked. What the hell kind of person doesn’t like cheese?  “What? But you eat pizza all the time!”

“I’m okay with cheese when it’s part of the dish, like on pizza, but I can’t deal with just a hunk of cheese and two slices of bread,” he explains. I stare at him like I’m questioning his status as a human being. “I know that it’s weird; you don’t need to tell me.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I assert.

“No, you didn’t,” he admits. “Pizza sounds good, though. I think I’ll get that.” He walks away toward the pizza station, probably eager to escape my judgment.

It takes about ten minutes for me to get my grilled cheese. By that time, Phil’s already eaten a salad and one of his two slices of taco pizza, a strange concoction of pizza with taco meat, tomatoes, and lettuce on top. 

“Mm, Phil, just look at this gooey, melted cheese,” I say as I pull the two halves of my sandwich apart. He makes a sour face in response.

Phil asks me if I feel prepared for my midterms, and I confess that I really haven’t studied much yet. My first exam isn’t until Wednesday, so I still have some time. I’m also fairly certain that my exams won’t be as difficult as they were last semester. It’s not that my media classes are less challenging, but I definitely enjoy the subject matter much more, so putting in effort to learn the concepts doesn’t feel like torture.

“Are you going home for spring break?” Phil inquires.

“No, I’m not,” I tell him. It didn’t seem worth the cost of an international flight to go home for only a week.

“Are you staying here, or do you have other plans?” he asks. As if I have money for recreational travel.

“I’ll be here.” It’s going to be an immensely boring week, I’m sure. Tom and Aubrey are going to California because his parents want to meet her, and everyone else on my floor is going home. Phil probably is as well, especially since this is his last school break before graduation. But when I look up from my plate, he’s grinning at me. “What?” I ask.

“I’m staying here, too,” he tells me.

“Really? You’re not going to some tourist trap beach town in Mexico to party with your upperclassmen friends?” I was sure that he’d at least go home. Certainly he would have seniority and could make one of the sophomore or junior RAs stay and work for him.

“No,” he says with a small laugh. “I’d much rather spend the week with you.”

I try not to blush. “Would you now?”

“Absolutely. Besides, I should start hearing back from some of the graduate programs that I applied to by the end of next week. I didn’t want to have to worry about that while traveling.”

“Oh, that’s exciting! I’m sure that it will be good news.”

“I hope so,” he says. “But we’ll see.”

We finish our meal and head our separate ways for the rest of the day, since Phil has class soon. I should use the remaining time before my next class to revise, but I end up spending most of it daydreaming about how amazing it will be to have so much time with Phil without having to stress about classes and tests and with hardly anyone else around on campus.

The next three days are a blur of late, caffeine-fueled nights spent in the library or the Carpenter lobby. Aubrey and Tom join me intermittently. It’s motivating to study with other people, even if you’re not studying the same thing. Sometimes I just need someone to hold me accountable when my 15-minute tumblr breaks turn into 45-minute bouts of procrastination. I manage to do fairly well on my video and audio production exams. Digital Media Strategies goes fine as well. The midterm for Media Responsibility Over Time turns out to be a bit more difficult than I was expecting, but I’ll have to wait and see if the professor buys the bullshit argument that I attempted to string together in my essay.

And just like that, at 5 o’clock on Thursday evening, it’s all over.  

There have been fewer and fewer students out and about on campus as the week has gone on, but the place really starts to clear out starting on Friday morning. I lounge on one of the couches in the Carpenter lobby and watch some bad TV movie for two hours because I can’t find the motivation to search for the remote. By late afternoon, the only two people still in the building are me and the RA working the front desk.

Then I remember that over breaks, there is only one on-duty RA for all four freshmen residence halls. If this other person is working right now, that means that Phil isn’t.

_ i’m bored. what are you up to? _

He replies after only seconds:

_ Nothing much. Want to come over? _

Yes, absolutely I do. A jolt of excitement rushes through my veins. I practically jog up the stairs and across the skywalk into Harlan Hall.

I knock on Phil’s door, and it swings open moments later.

“Hey, Dan,” he greets me with a smile.

“Hey,” I return, stepping into his room and toeing off my shoes next to where he always keeps his. I sit down on the edge of his neatly made bed while he asks me how my midterms went. I offer a small recount of each exam, and I mention how I’m mostly just glad that it’s all over. He sits down next to me and tells me much the same thing.

“So, what do you want to do this evening?” Phil asks. “We could order pizza or Chinese and watch a movie,” he suggests. “Or we could play videogames, or –“

“Or we could take advantage ofthe fact that we practically have  this whole building all to ourselves,” I interject. There’s no one to hear us through the paper-thin walls, no one to raise an eyebrow at the sound of creaking bedsprings.

Phil doesn’t seem to catch my meaning right away, so I cup the side of his face with my hand and lean forward to connect our lips. He responds eagerly, pushing his tongue into my mouth. My heart rate quickens. I curl my fingers into the tips of his hair. He places one hand on my hip, and the other on my upper back where he traces small circles with his thumb. His touch is electrifying.

We kiss again and again, increasing the pace. I run my hand down the front of Phil’s chest and around to his lower back, where I play with the hem of his shirt. I push it up further and further, eventually breaking the kiss in order to pull it over his head. I quickly remove my own shirt as well while I have the opportunity. Phil’s eyes glance over my form, then back at my face. They’re heavy with desire.

I kiss him again, pulling him closer this time. The sensation of so much of his skin against mine is enthralling. I lean backward onto the mattress and I pull him down with me.

His hand slides up my bare chest, and I wonder if he can feel the beating of my heart.

“Where are you going with this, Dan?” he asks me.

I swallow my nerves as best I can. “I want you to fuck me,” I tell him while I maintain eye contact. I want to seem as confident as possible even though I’m certainly not.

He stares down at me. At least he’s not laughing, so I take that as a good sign. “Have you ever done this before? Do you know what it’s really like?”

“I sucked a guy’s dick once,” I boast.

Phil instantly laughs and rolls off of me and onto his side.

“What?” I ask. “Why is that so funny? I’m serious!”

“I’m sorry, it was just the way that you said it.”

“I sucked a guy’s dick. I’ve given and received handjobs,” I elaborate. Phil props himself up on his elbow.

“But you’ve never been fucked?” he asks.

“No,” I admit. “Have you?” Back when Phil was still dating Caroline, I never would have guessed that he had any interest in guys. I wouldn’t be surprised if this is new for him, as well.

“Yes,” he says. “I have.”

Maybe someday I’ll learn to stop making assumptions about Phil Lester.

“I only ever dated girls in high school,” he tells me. “I was interested in boys, too, but I was too scared to ever act on it. Then, when I came to university, I saw that as an opportunity to try new things. So I tried lots and lots of new things with several different guys, but I never had real feelings for any of them. I met Caroline sophomore year, and I thought that maybe it was time to give up my wild teenage escapades and settle for something real, something that could last. And it felt real, at the time. But then I met you.”

My heart swells. I kiss him again, and he moves back on top of me, straddling my hips. His tongue presses against mine more forcefully this time. I press my hips up against him, desperate for more friction.

“So you really want to do this?” he asks me.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I affirm.

“Okay,” he whispers. He leans back down like he’s going to kiss me, but instead, he presses his face into the crook of my neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there. I inhale sharply. He kisses along my collarbone, and then begins to move down my chest. His tongue flicks at my nipple, and I moan from the sensation. He moves down further and further, kissing my stomach as he goes. I lift my hips so that he can pull off my jeans, and he ends up removing my boxers and socks along with them.

I feel incredibly exposed and vulnerable all of a sudden, lying naked here on his bed. But then he runs his hand up my inner thigh, and my mind gets lost in other, more pleasant thoughts. His other hand grips the base of my half-hard cock, making me moan yet again. He leans down, and his lips encircle the tip of my dick, his tongue flicking at the slit. His hand disappears, and he takes more and more of me into his mouth.

I hear the top of a plastic cap being flicked open. I open my eyes and see the bottle of lube in Phil’s hand. Where did that come from? When did he grab it? When he put my clothes on the floor?

I stop caring when his slick finger makes contact with my hole, slowly but firmly pushing inside. It doesn’t hurt per say, but the sensation is incredibly weird. He thrusts in and out several times before adding a second finger. The stretch burns, but somehow, I want more. He curls his fingers and searches for my prostate. When he finds it, electric sparks shoot out all over my body. I moan loudly, unable to help myself.

It doesn’t take long for him to bring me to the edge. “Phil, I’m gonna- I’m gonna come,” I stammer. I expect him to stop, to pull away so that he can fuck me now, but he doesn’t. His lips remain glued to my cock, and when I finally lose control, he swallows, and keeps fingering me as I come down from the high.

“What happened to you fucking me?” I ask once I catch my breath.

“Oh, I still plan to,” he says. “I just know that I won’t last long since it’s been awhile, and I wanted to make sure that you came first.” He finally pulls off his jeans and his boxers, and I catch my first proper glimpse of his long, thick cock while he puts a condom on. He situates himself on top of me again, and we languidly kiss as I wrap my legs around him.

Phil pauses for a moment to line himself up, then slowly pushes inside of me. The burn is more intense than I’d imagined, but the feeling of being filled so completely is incredible. He kisses me as he begins to thrust. He starts to go faster, and his lips cease moving against mine, and he moves to press his forehead against mine. He moans quietly when he comes, and he jerks his hips a few more times before pulling out. He ties the condom and throws it away before moving to lie down half next to me, half on top of me.

“You okay?” he asks, stroking my hair. I nod. I’m more than okay. “I cried after my first time bottoming,” he tells me. “Not during, but after. The guy hardly bothered stretching me at all.”

“I’m sorry that that happened to you,” I say, “but I’m not going to cry, Phil. Mostly because you’re actually a decent human being, unlike that guy. In fact, you’re pretty great.”

“Thanks, that’s good to hear. You’re pretty great, too.”

We lie there for some time tracing invisible patterns on each other’s skin. I can’t imagine a more perfect afternoon.


	28. Golden Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing!

I wake up on Tuesday morning wedged between Phil’s chest and his bedroom wall. The blinds are drawn, but the morning sunlight is peaking through the cracks around the edges. I shift slightly, searching for a more comfortable position to alleviate the cramp in my leg. Phil opens his eyes just a sliver, and shifts over a bit to give me more room, not that there’s much to give. I flip over onto my stomach, half of my body lying on top of him, my head resting against his shoulder. He runs his fingers up and down my forearm, which rests across his chest. All in all, it’s not a bad way to start the day.

I could stay like this for hours, but my bladder has other ideas. I climb over Phil and off of the bed. “Sorry,” I whisper, but he hardly seems to notice. I grab my wash bag from its unofficial place on top of Phil’s dresser and head to the bathroom. I’ve slept here for four nights in a row now, so it only made sense to bring my toothbrush and a few other essentials along.

When I return to the room, I’m surprised to find Phil sitting up in bed and looking at something on his laptop. His brow is furrowed, and he’s leaning his chin on the palm of his hand. “What’s up?” I ask.

“You’re never going to believe this,” he says. His tone is vaguely upbeat, so it must not be bad news.

“What?”

“Guess who I just got an email from,” he requests.

“I don’t know, who?”

“Caroline,” he says.

I don’t know who I was expecting him to say, but I certainly never would have guessed her. “What did she have to say?” I ask.  I don’t want to pry, but he seems to have something more that he wants to tell me. The bed creaks when I sit down next to him.

“Here, you should read it,” he says, handing me his MacBook. My eyes briefly dart across the screen, where there are probably fifteen different program windows open all overlapping one another, and then land on the email in the center.

_ Hi Phil, _

_ I hope that you’re doing well. I’m sure you’re probably aware that Panic! at the Disco is playing a concert in Des Moines tonight. _

That’s definitely not where I thought this message was going.

_ I don’t know if you’re in town, but I purchased two tickets for us back when they went on sale early last semester. My intention was to give them to you for Christmas or for your birthday. After what happened, I thought about selling them, but I just never got around to it. I also thought about taking a friend and going myself, but as you also know, they’re not really my favorite genre of music. I know that you like them quite a bit, especially their older stuff. So, I just feel like you should go, if you’re available, that is. If not, feel free to pass them on to someone else. I’d like for someone to go and have a good time.  _

_ Best, _

_ Caroline _

When I finish reading, I glance up and see that there is a pdf of the tickets attached to the email. I hand the laptop back to Phil. “Wow, that’s really random,” I say.

“I know,” he agrees. “That’s so like her, though, to buy me a present months in advance.” He shakes his head slowly.

“Yeah. People tend to do that when they feel secure in a relationship,” I comment. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. It’s times like these when I wish that I could press CTRL+Z and undo things in real life.  “I mean, she shouldn’t have assumed, of course…”

“It’s fine, I know what you mean,” Phil says, waving away my awkwardness. “So, do you want to go to a concert tonight?”

“You actually think we should go?” I ask. I’m surprised that he wants to go along with this. I would have thought that he wouldn’t feel right about accepting her kind gesture, especially not when it would involve me.

“Yeah, I do,” he replies. “Caroline’s right; it would be a shame for the tickets to go to waste. I’ll offer to pay her back for them, but I know that she probably won’t take it.”

I nod, “I’m surprised that she wouldn’t just go to the show herself.”

Phil shakes his head. “No, she grew up listening to country music. She likes some pop music too now , but not really stuff like Panic.”

“But she would have gone with you, right? I assume that was her plan?” I should probably drop the subject, but it doesn’t seem to be bothering Phil.

“Oh, probably,” he admits. “She would have done a lot of things for me that she didn’t really want to. And I would have done the same for her.” He shrugs his shoulders like it doesn’t matter because it’s all in the past. But I know that he still thinks about her and compares me to her. How could he not?

I know that compromise is essential to any relationship, but I also know that it eventually pushed them to the breaking point. He wasn’t willing to curtail his dreams to fit with hers. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that she was unwilling to do the same. Either way, you can only bend who you are to fit someone else’s mold so much. Otherwise, you end up with $50 tickets to a show that you don’t even want to see.

But that’s just fucking depressing. “Wait, don’t you have a desk shift today?” I ask, suddenly remembering that we might not actually be able to go to this concert because of Phil’s RA duties.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “But I bet I can get Kristina to cover the last few hours of my shift. If you want to go, that is.”

“Yeah, I think it would be fun,” I tell him. Panic isn’t my favorite band, but I like them well enough. Even if only one of the original members is still part of the group.

“Good, me too,” Phil adds. He reaches for his phone, presumably to text Kristina and beg for mercy. All of Phil’s coworkers love him, so I’m sure she’ll be willing to do him the favor.

Phil has to be downstairs relatively soon, so I head back to my own room that way he can shower and get ready for the day. I should probably also change my clothes, not that there’s really anyone around who would notice if I didn’t.

During Phil’s weekend front desk shifts, I hung out in the Carpenter lobby and played video games on the giant TV, and I plan to do so again today. Phil keeps apologizing, since we can’t really leave campus and go exploring anywhere over spring break, but honestly, I’m perfectly content staying inside and spending most of the day lying on a sofa.

I spend most of the morning playing Skyrim. It’s a wonderful feeling, knowing that I’m not actually procrastinating any schoolwork that I should be doing right now. We even have a break from the radio show, as the station’s airwaves are silent during official university breaks. Around lunchtime, I decide to go bug Phil.

“You know, the other RAs just leave signs here saying ‘find me in the lobby’ or whatever when there’s no one around to actually need them,” I say, having caught him literally staring at the ceiling.

“Per the RA handbook, I’m only allowed to leave during my shift to go to the bathroom or if there’s an emergency,” he replies without even looking at me. I was hoping to startle him, but clearly, he heard me coming.

“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes at him and his stubborn adherence to the rules. “What are you doing for lunch?” I ask. I don’t have much to offer him aside from microwavable macaroni and cheese cups, but I suppose I could always walk to McDonald’s.

Phil reaches down into his backpack and pulls out a Lunchable in response. I laugh at the tiny stacks of crackers, cheese, and lunchmeat. I go upstairs to microwave my Easy Mac and bring it back down so that I can eat at the desk with him. It’s almost like we’re a pair of primary school children.

We watch an episode of Friends on Netflix while we eat. It’s a habit we’ve picked up over the last few days of being exiled from the dining hall - since it’s closed for spring break.

“Don’t let me forget to print our tickets before we leave,” Phil tells me randomly. We’ll have to go to Oelwein or to the library to get to a printer, assuming that those buildings are even open today.

“I can go do that now,” I offer. Phil argues that it shouldn’t be my responsibility, and I insist that I’m bored and could do with a distraction. So I end up breaking up my afternoon of more video games with a campus printing quest.

It turns out that Oelwein is closed for the entirety of break, but the library is open 9-5. The librarian on duty looked at me like she was seeing a ghost, which was quite amusing.

The afternoon drags on after that, but eventually, 7 o’clock rolls around, Kristina comes to relieve Phil of his duties, and we’re able to head out for the evening.

“So where are we going, exactly?” I ask as Phil turns onto the ramp leading to the eastbound side of the highway. I’m just hoping that the venue is an actual building of some sort. The temperature is fairly mild for March, but it’s still a bit cold to be going to an outdoor concert.

“Wells Fargo,” Phil answers.

“Isn’t that a bank?” I ask with some hesitation. But I’m fairly certain that the bank a few blocks from campus is called Wells Fargo.

“Wells Fargo Arena,” Phil corrects. It must be some sort of sponsorship deal.

I’ve never been to a concert in an arena before. Most of the live music that I’ve seen has been outdoors at festivals in the summer. I imagine that it will be a bit strange for everyone to have an assigned seat, since I’m sure no one will be sitting once the music starts.

We exit the highway at one of the downtown exits, and Phil navigates to a car park relatively close to the venue. As we walk up the hill, I realize that the building we’re going to is incredibly large, or at least it appears to be from the outside. We wait in a short line for our tickets to be scanned before heading inside. We buy food at one of the concession stands – nachos for me and a hot dog for Phil.

“We're in row K,” Phil tells me when we reach the entrance designated for section 105. When we step inside the arena itself, I’m astounded by its size.

“This place is huge!” I comment, gazing out over the vast expanse of plastic folding seats.

“Yeah, there’s 16,000 seats,” Phil tells me.

“What!?” I exclaim. “That’s like ¾ the size of the O2 in London!” I’m astounded. This town is miniscule by comparison, yet it has a facility like this?

“Yeah,” Phil says, clearly not as impressed or surprised as I am.

“Why the fuck is there an arena this size in a place like this?” I ask. 

“I don’t know; it’s fairly normal for American cities to have large arenas like this. People come from quite far away to see things here.”

We have to climb over several people to reach our seats since the doors actually opened about half an hour before we arrived. I could do without the awkwardness of inconveniencing other humans, but it’s nice to not have to wait long for the show to start. The two opening acts are relatively tolerable, despite the fact that I’ve never heard of either of them before. More importantly, Phil seems to be enjoying himself considerably.

There’s something special about the atmosphere at a live gig where you just unquestioningly become part of the crowd. When Panic takes the stage, the crowd truly comes to life. Thousands of people scream along to every song. I can hardly hear myself think, which makes it difficult to feel self-conscious about my singing voice.

Phil and I dance along to the music. We throw our arms into the air and scream at the end of each song. The music seems to feed off of the energy of the crowd and vice versa. It’s an almost religious experience.

The show comes to an end after twenty or so songs. The crowd demands an encore, and we get two more. After the stage goes dark for the final time, Phil and I join the flow of the crowd that spills out of the venue, and I feel the ringing in my ears and the scratchiness in my throat. As we’re walking down the street, I realize that I have the song Golden Days stuck in my head. It was played early in the set list, and it’s not a song that I had any particular affinity for before tonight. The lyrics are a nostalgic imagination of the lives of a pair of lovers in the summer of 1979. There’s a particular line about not letting certain memories fade away. That’s what resonated with me, I think.

“Did you have a good time?” Phil asks me.

“Yeah, I really did,” I tell him.

I know that things won’t always be this simple. At some point, life is going to catch up with me and force me to make certain choices that I’d rather avoid. But even so, I think that this night will be one of those golden memories that I cling to for years to come.

 

 


	29. Suits and Sirens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). Thanks!

The solitude of spring break is, sadly, short lived. My floormates return gradually throughout Sunday afternoon and evening. The buzz of activity in the hall seems thunderous compared to my preceding week of solitude, though it’s really no different from any normal Sunday evening.

“Hey girl, how was Mexico?” one female voice in the hallway asks. Since when do freshmen have the money to go to Mexico for spring break? Unless maybe their parents paid for it.

“Oh my god, it was fabulous,” a voice that I recognize as Jessica’s responds. “I made Brad buy me so many pina coladas, and I got so tan. Look at my tan line!”

“Wow, that’s impressive!” says the other girl. “You look so great!”

Because skin cancer is so fashionable.

“I know! The only bad part was that Brad kept getting so drunk that he didn’t even want to have sex with me. We only did it like, twice the whole time we were there.”

“Ugh, that’s so trashy.”

“I know! I’m totally dumping his ass,” Jessica declares.

“Good for you! You totally should.” The other girl’s voice trails off as they walk down the hallway until I can no longer overhear their conversation.

So all of my former FYS classmates are back, and they’ve brought their drama with them. I glance out my window and notice that there are even a few brave souls out playing in the snow that fell on Saturday. Phil and I spent the whole day in the lobby while he was on RA duty watching the snowflakes sprinkle the valley between the four dorm buildings. My heart is heavy knowing that our window of blissful isolation has passed.

Tom knocks on my door around 11 PM, eager to tell me all about his trip home with Aubrey. I know that Aubrey was a bit nervous about meeting his parents. I open the door and step into the hallway, not wanting to disturb my roommate, Nate while he unpacks and listens to his music with his stereo on full blast.

“Hey man, how did it go?” I ask him.

“Dude, it was amazing. Like, actually amazing,” Tom says. He looks genuinely happy.

“That’s great! So your parents like her?”

“Yeah, they think she’s great. I mean, because she is. My mom actually said that Aubrey seems way out of my league, and that I should never forget that. I’m not sure if she meant that to be a good thing or a bad thing, though.”

“I mean, she could have just meant that you should be grateful to have her in your life and not take her for granted,” I suggest.

“Yeah, or she could have been saying that Aubrey’s going to wake up one day and realize that I’m not good enough for her.”

I know that Tom is looking for reassurance from me, but I don’t know what to say. Aubrey is my friend, but I can’t read her mind any better than he can. I don’t think that Aubrey is the sort of person who would do something like that, but how would I know, really? It’s not impossible; and nothing is ever certain in a relationship. “Don’t let your mum mess with your head,” I advise.

“I know, I know,” he mutters. “I think Aubrey really liked Pasadena, so –”

The sound of an incredibly loud, high-pitched alarm cuts Tom off mid sentence. The incessant rhythmic whooping of the fire alarm is accompanied by flashing white lights near the stairwell indicating our path to the nearest emergency exit. Our neighbors begin poking their heads out of their doors, momentarily questioning if we’re really going to have to evacuate the building. Tom and I stand there for a good 30 seconds, hoping for a reprieve. But the alarm doesn’t stop.

I duck into my room just long enough to slip on my shoes and find my coat. Then Tom and I join the flood of people streaming down the staircase and out the front door of the building. The air outside is bitterly cold. We all stand around in the open area between the building and the street shivering and huddling for warmth.

“Man, this blows. Less than 48 hours ago, I was on a beach in California. Now I’m freezing my balls off standing in a snow drift,” Tom comments.

“That is rather unfortunate,” I agree. “Although, to be fair, I wouldn’t exactly calls this a snow drift.” Tom is being dramatic. There are maybe 10 centimeters of snow on the ground.

Tom rolls his eyes at me. The blaring noise continues.

I spot Phil walking toward the front door a few moments later. “Hey, Phil!” I shout. He doesn’t hear me, so I weave my way through the crowd and grab his arm. “Hey,” I repeat after mildly startling him. “What’s going on?” The monthly fire drills are always at 9:30 AM, so I know that this isn’t a drill.

“Everything’s fine, someone just tried to make ramen with a splash of Red Bull instead water and microwaved it for 30 minutes instead of 3. And of course, they fell asleep about 1 minute after they hit start,” he explains.

“Oh, that’s just wonderful,” I say.

“I have to go, sorry,” Phil apologizes before walking away.

I have just enough time to relay this new information to Tom before the alarm stops, and we all rush back inside. Back upstairs, we catch up with Aubrey and tell her the story.

“Ugh, this is what I hate about living in the dorms, having to pay for other people’s stupidity,” she says.

“No kidding,” I agree.

At the time, I assumed that the fire alarm was the most unexpected, annoying thing that would probably happen to me this week. I was wrong.

I wake up on Monday morning to an email from Dr. Torres, the radio station manager. The subject line reads: URGENT – I need to speak with you today.

Oh, fuck.

A different set of alarm bells goes off in my head. My heart pounds in my chest. My mind races, and I wonder what I’ve done wrong recently to incur the wrath of Professor Torres. Today is Monday, which means that yesterday was Sunday. We didn’t do a show yesterday. But we weren’t supposed to, because yesterday was still spring break. What could I have possibly done over spring break?

Then I notice that the email was also sent to Phil and Aubrey. So it’s definitely about our show. That’s probably not good, but at least I won’t be facing the music alone.

Unfortunately, the body of the email does not reveal any further details. Dr. Torres has simply suggested a time for us to meet this afternoon, which just happens to be right after my second lecture of the day. I wonder if she somehow has access to my class schedule and already knows that. It seems like a plausible theory. I reply and confirm that I am available at that time.

I then log onto Facebook, planning to message Phil and Aubrey in our group chat and ask if either of them have any clue what is going on. But, because they are both more responsible, functional humans than I am who have probably been awake for several hours, they’re already way ahead of me. Aubrey asked if anyone knew what the email was about at 7:03 AM, which I would guess was three minutes after her alarm went off and she actually got up rather than hitting snooze five times like I normally do. Phil somewhat promptly replied at 8:42 AM that no, he does not know what this meeting is about. I belatedly add that I don’t know either. They probably already assumed that. Or perhaps they assumed that this is all my fault, which it very well may be.

Unsurprisingly, I find myself unable to concentrate in either of my lectures. I’m so afraid that this is somehow going to be the end of our show. Phil will be so disappointed. It’s entirely possible that he will never want to speak to me again. Fuck, I can’t go back to that. Not now, not when everything was going so perfectly.

As soon as my audio production lecture is dismissed, I bolt out of the door and up the stairs as quickly as possible. Phil and Aubrey are waiting outside of the College of Journalism and Media Studies administrative offices when I arrive.

“Hey, Dan,” Phil greets me. There is an uncertain nervousness is his voice. Aubrey smiles at me meekly.

“Hey,” I say in reply. “I really don’t have a clue what this is about, do you?” I ask. They both shake their heads.

The receptionist informs us that Dr. Torres is ready for us and escorts us back to her office. I feel like I’m being sent to the headmaster’s office, which I suppose isn’t terribly far from the truth.

“Oh, hello. Come in, come in,” Dr. Torres beckons to us from behind her desk. Her tone is shockingly upbeat. I try not to let it give me false optimism. “I’m sure you are all wondering why I’ve asked you here today so urgently,” she begins.

“Yes, we certainly are, Professor,” Phil says lightheartedly. How can he manage to sound so cheerful at a time like this?

“Dan, do you own a suit?” she asks.

“I beg your pardon?” I ask in return, having been rather taken by surprise by her seemingly random personal question.

“I know that Phil has one. Dan, if you don’t, or if you don’t have it here with you, you’re going to need to acquire one in the next two weeks.”

I look over at Phil, and then at Aubrey to see if I’m simply missing something obvious. I wouldn’t put it past me to be the only person in the room that was out of the loop. But they both look just as confused as I feel.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Torres,” Aubrey interjects, “but I think that we’re all a bit lost.”

“Yes, sorry, I’ll get to the point,” Professor Torres promises. “The Associated Collegiate Press recognizes outstanding achievements in student-led broadcast and other media productions each year at their mid year National Convention. Mallard has been nominated twice, for video productions in both cases. That is, until now when we have been blessed with a nomination for Outstanding Innovation in Radio Broadcast Journalism.”

It takes a moment for the implication of her words to fully absorb into my consciousness. Phil turns his head toward me, and I meet his stunned gaze. I certainly did not walk into this room expecting to hear good news.

“Are you saying that we have been nominated?” Aubrey asks.

“Technically, Dan and Phil have been nominated,” Dr. Torres clarifies. “Unfortunately, the award only directly recognizes the on-air talent, and my department’s budget will only allow for travel reimbursement for two students. That said, I know that you have put an incredible amount of work into this show, Aubrey, and I wanted you to be here when I gave the news.”

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” Aubrey says.

“This nomination brings great honor to the radio production program and to the entire university. Your significant contributions will not be forgotten,” Dr. Torres tells Aubrey.

“There’s no way we could have done any of this without you, Aubrey,” Phil says.

“Yeah,” I add, not sure what else there is to say.

“Thanks, guys,” she tells us. “But don’t worry about it. I’ve got another three years at this place; I still plan on winning a few awards of my own.”

I have no doubt that she will.

“We really ought to be thanking you as well, Professor,” Phil declares. “You were the one that pushed me to reconsider my original idea for the show, and you were the one that suggested bringing Dan on board, as well.”

It sounds like I own this woman a great debt, at the very least.

“Ah, but it was your brilliant idea in the first place, Phil. As your advisor, it is simply my job to encourage and foster greatness in my students where I can. And I think we can all agree that the show would never have been so successful without Dan’s contributions, as well.”

I hardly see how my minimal efforts could even compare to the immense amount of work that has been done by the other three people in this room, but it was nice of her to say that all the same.

“She’s right, Dan,” Phil says to me. I shrug my shoulders.

“The convention is April 6 th thru the 9 th in Chicago,” Dr. Torres continues. So she wasn’t kidding about me needing to buy a suit in the next two weeks. “You will both be excused from your classes on Thursday and Friday, and will be reimbursed for up to $800 each for travel and lodging. The awards are presented at the Saturday evening gala, so I certainly expect you to be there for that. You are welcome to attend the convention programming, or to otherwise enrich your learning as you see fit.”

Phil smiles and lets out a small laugh. It takes me until that precise moment to realize that Phil and I are going back to Chicago, the city that we drove to and back in one night at the very beginning of the semester to rescue Tom from the airport. And I’m fairly certain that Dr. Torres just gave us her blessing to skip out on the convention that the university is paying for us to go to so that we can go sightseeing.

“Rob would kill me if I didn’t insist that you go to Giordano’s for pizza while you’re there,” Dr. Torres mentions.

“Oh, absolutely,” Aubrey concurs.

“My husband is originally from Chicago,” Professor Torres explains to me. “We met when I was working on my PhD there. Are you from the area, Aubrey?”

“Yes, I’m from Winnetka,” Aubrey tells her.

“Oh, lovely! We’ll have to chat about it sometime,” Dr. Torres insists. “Boys, I’m sure that Aubrey can inform you of any other essential Chicago experiences that you shouldn’t miss. I have another meeting in 5 minutes, so I’m afraid that I need to run,” she tells us while pushing her chair back from her desk and standing up. “But look for an email from me with more detail about the convention and instructions for the travel reimbursement process, okay?”

“Will do,” Phil says as we all stand up and gather our backpacks.

“Perfect,” Dr. Torres says as she ushers us out of her office. “And congratulations!”

“Thanks!” I call after her, feeling like I should say something after having been so quiet throughout the majority of the conversation.

The three of us take a few steps down the hall in silence, still stunned by what has just happened.

“So… I guess we’re going back to Chicago,” Phil mutters.

I guess we are. 

 

 


	30. April Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Emily, Queen of Pranks. 
> 
> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

I look down at my reflection in my dusty black laptop screen and adjust my fringe a few times until I’m satisfied with the way it rests across my forehead. Even after several months of broadcasting our visual radio show, I still feel nervous about being on camera. I fidget with my clothes and my hair in the minutes leading up to going live every Sunday.  

“Alright, boys, we’re live in ten, nine, eight, seven…” Aubrey counts down.

I gulp down the saliva that’s been pooling in my mouth and stare into the camera lens. I glance over at Phil, who is calmly arranging something on the control panel. We always begin the show by playing a song, so we don’t need to speak into the microphones and address the audience just yet, but we usually at least wave at the camera at the start of the show and write a quick “hello” message on the handheld whiteboard. I spot the board leaning against the wall near Phil’s feet and see that he’s already taken care of today’s message, “Happy April!”. It is our first show this month, though why anyone would care, I don’t know.

Aubrey signals that the video feed is now live, and the first song starts to play. Phil holds up the board, and I wave at the camera like an idiot. We play a game of tic tac toe to entertain the audience while a Kings of Leon song plays over the airwaves. I beat Phil twice in a row. He silently expressed his displeasure to the camera via a variety of sour facial expressions.

“Hello everybody, thanks for joining us tonight!” Phil says once the song finishes.

“We are Dan –” I say.

“– and Phil,” Phil adds.

“And you’re listening to 96.1 The Duck,” I finish. “If you’re super retro and are listening to us via an actual radio on or near the Mallard University campus, we want you to know that you also have the option to watch a live feed of us from inside the studio which you can find on our website, www dot mallard dot edu slash student radio.”

“That’s right,” Phil affirms. “If you’re not watching us live, you’re missing out on all kinds of fun, so you should check that out. And let’s not forget that this is the Sunday evening request show, so if you have a song that you’d like to hear, you can call us at 515-271-double 1-double 9 or tweet us using #MUradiorequests.”

I segue into introducing our first twitter request,  _ Heathens _ by Twenty One Pilots. Phil demands a tic tac toe rematch, and I beat him a third time. His downfall is that he always lets me go first.

When the song ends, Phil immediately launches into our usual friendly banter where we pretend to tell each other things that have happened in our lives recently. We’ve already heard one another’s stories, but the audience hasn’t, so the charade is for their benefit. “So this really weird thing happened to me yesterday,” Phil begins. His stories begin this way more often than not. Phil is like a magnet for weird.

“Yeah? What happened, Phil?” I ask, fully expecting him to launch into the story of how the dude giving out free bibles on the street corner told him that his haircut meant that he was damned to hell.

“You know those ducks that like to hang out around the pond on the south end of the commons?”

“Yeah…” I drag the word out into a question, because I don't think I’ve heard this story after all.

“Well, I was walking by there yesterday morning, and one of the ducks decided to follow me home!” Phil says with far too much exuberance.

“What?” I counter. Despite being the same species as our school mascot, those ducks are wild animals, and are probably riddled with all sorts of diseases.

“Yeah! One of the smaller ducks – I think he must be like a teenage duck or something – just followed me all of the way back to my dorm and refused to leave! He kept quacking at me, and he looked to sad and friendly at the same time, so I let him into the building.”

“You what?” I ask. Certainly letting a wild duck into the Harlan lobby is a violation of at least three statutes in the student handbook. And Phil’s job as an RA is to make sure that those rules are never broken. Would he really be stupid enough to admit to this live on the radio?

“The little guy followed me right into the elevator and up to my room. He’s still there right now,” Phil says, looking at me rather than at the camera. “I’ve named him Steve.”

“You did not,” I declare. “I don’t believe you; surely you’re making this up.”

“April fools!” Phil yells into the microphone, a ridiculous shit-eating grin on his face. Of course Phil would find a way to try and prank me live on the air. Except that today isn’t the first of April.

“Phil, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but today is April 2 nd ,” I remind him.

“Right, but this is the April Fools’ Day radio show,” Phil tells me.

“Is it?” I don’t remember that having been a topic of discussion at our weekly show prep meeting on Friday.

“Yeah! So if any of you out there listening have any fun stories about pranks you’ve pulled in the past or pranks that people have pulled on you, give us a call and tell us about them!”

“In the meantime, here’s another request from twitter,” I announce. “AmazingBecca would like to hear  _ Undisclosed Desires _ by Muse. Here you go, Becca! Enjoy!” The girl has a rather unoriginal username, but it does make her easy to identify as one of Phil’s Youtube subscribers.

I press the button to start the song. When I look back at Phil, he still has this obnoxiously huge grin on his face.

“Did you know about this?” I ask Aubrey after she puts a caller on hold.

“Nope, but it was pretty funny, and the callers seem to be into it,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders.

My mind spins into overdrive trying to come up with some way to get back at Phil. If I try to get him to believe some fanatical story, he’ll know what I’m up to. Beyond that, I can’t think of much I could do during the show without having done any sort of pre-planning. So I’ll probably have to wait and get him back later. But how?

I could make him a coffee with salt instead of sugar. Although, he’d probably find it odd if I offered to make him a coffee at Huxley considering that I’ve never done that before. I could also put flour in his hairdryer so that it creates a puff of smoke when he turns it on. But there’s a small chance that the flour could catch fire, so that doesn’t seem like the best idea, either.

“That was Muse, one of my favorite bands, actually, and you’re listening to 96.1 The Duck,” Phil says when the song finishes.

“It looks like we have our first caller, Phil,” I tell him. “Hello, Hannah!”

“Hi!” the girl returns.

“I hear you have a few prank stories to share with us,” I add, reading off of Aubrey’s note.

“Yeah, so I’m a college student, and I live in an apartment with three other girls,” she tells us. It’s somewhat of a relief whenever we get calls from people who are actually my age as opposed to all of Phil’s 14-year-old Youtube fans. “One of my roommate is obsessed with April Fools’ Day. Like, it’s probably her favorite holiday aside from Christmas.”

“Nothing could ever top Christmas,” Phil interjects.

“Right,” Hannah agrees. “Anyways, so a few months ago, my roommate asked all of us that live together if it would be okay if she pranked us on April Fools’. I said sure as long as she promised to not damage any of my stuff. So then yesterday, I came home from work, and I found that my bedroom had been filled from floor to ceiling with party balloons.”

“At least she kept her word about not damaging anything,” I say.

“What are you going to do with all of the balloons?” Phil asks.

“Well, I popped about half of them with scissors just so that I could walk through my room again,” Hannah answers. “Some of them made their way down the hall and into the living room. One of my other roommates took a sharpie and named one of the green ones Loki. After that, we all started naming them after other Marvel characters. All of the Avengers balloons are currently lined up on our couch.”

“That sounds really cool!” Phil says. “I’m glad that you were able to have fun with it.”

“Did she do anything to prank your other roommates?” I ask.

“Yeah, she did, actually,” Hannah says. “So, one of my other roommates has really, really long brown hair that tends to get all over everything. She also loves Harry Potter. So the prankster roommate put a sign on her door that said ‘Enemies of the Hair, Beware’, like as a play on the ‘Enemies of the heir, beware’ thing from Chamber of Secrets, you know? And the best part was that she printed out a giant picture of Nicolas Cage with long hair to go with it.”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing,” I declare. “This girl is my hero.”

“Right? But that’s not even the best one,” Hannah continues. “For my third roommate, she got really devious. Prankster roommate hid a Bluetooth speaker under her bed, and when we all went to sleep last night, she very quietly played the song  _ They’re Taking the Hobbits to Isengard _ on a loop hoping that it would drive her crazy.”

“Wow, that must have been really annoying,” Phil comments. I hope that he’s not getting any ideas from this conversation, but he probably is.

“Did it work?” I ask.

“Yes and no,” Hannah admits. “I guess she thought for a while that prankster roommate was just playing music out loud in her room, because they live right next door to each other. But when she figured out that that wasn’t what was happening, it only took her about a minute to find the speaker.”

“Aw, that stinks,” Phil says. “But thank you so much for sharing those cool stories with us! I think you have more than earned your song request. What would you like to hear, Hannah?”

“Thanks, Phil!” Hannah says. “Could you play me something by Fall Out Boy?”

“Sure thing, Hannah. Here’s  _ Thanks for the Memories _ by Fall Out Boy,” I announce.

“Or, as it’s actually called,  _ Thnks fr th Mmrs _ ,” Phil interjects, pronouncing the song title without any of the vowel sounds in the words in order to match the way that the title is officially written. I mute our mics and glare at him as the song begins to play.

“What? That’s how it’s written!” Phil says in his own defense.

“Yes, that’s how it’s written, but that’s not how you’re meant to say it out loud,” I retort. I look over to Aubrey, hoping that she’ll side with me in this argument, but unfortunately, she’s busy talking to a caller on the phone. I guess I’ll just have to let this one go.

Our next caller has a more devious prank story, or so Aubrey’s message tells me.

“Next up we have Chris, who I’m told has a story to share with us about a prank that he played in the past,” I announce. “So what’s the deal, Chris? What did you do?”

“Hey my dudes,” the young man’s voice greets us. It’s unusual for us to have male callers, so that may be why Aubrey put him through as opposed to the quality of the actual story.

“Hello,” Phil returns. “What was your prank, Chris?”

“Well, it wasn’t actually for April Fools’ day, but a few years ago, I swapped out my sister’s shampoo with mayonnaise,” Chris confesses.

There is a short moment of silence where Phil and I both wait to see if Chris is planning to offer up any further details. He doesn’t.

“So, how did that turn out?” I probe.

“Oh man, it smelt vile! She was beyond pissed at me for like a month.” Phil and I glance at one another, and I’m sure that the web audience can see the disturbed expressions on our faces.

“Well, I hope that you’ve reconciled now,” Phil says. “What song would you like to hear tonight?”

Chris makes his request, and we’re happy to oblige just so that we can be done with him.

Phil and I each take turns trying to draw a duck in an elevator on the whiteboard while the song plays. After that, we read out both the official news and the Internet news. The segment isn’t any different to what we’ve done in the past, but our recent award nomination has made me view some of the quirks of our show in a new light. Will the judges appreciate a weird, but creative thing like the Internet news, or is that pure nonsense to them? I guess we’ll find out next weekend.

The next caller has another silly, but pleasant story for us.

“Hi Dan and Phil,” the girl, who is called Sophie, greets.

“Hi,” we both respond in unison.

“So, this prank is one from around this time last year,” Sophie begins. “My friend pranked me on April Fools’ day, and I wanted to get back at her. She’s also kind of obsessed with the musical 1776, which I think is dumb, because Hamilton is obviously way better. Anyway, she kept talking about Benjamin Franklin for like an entire weekend one time, so my other friend and I printed out like a hundred pictures of Ben Franklin, and we hid them all over her room. We left some of them in plain sight so that she would know that something was up, but we hid most of them inside of her drawers, her books, and her DVD cases, everywhere. It was awesome!”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” I say.

“How long did it take her to find all of them?” Phil inquires.

“Oh, she still hasn’t found all of them yet,” Sophie boasts. She then asks to hear a song by All Time Low, and we happily oblige.

A bit later, we conclude the show by telling the audience about our award nomination, and that we’re planning to be back from Chicago in time for our show next Sunday, but that there’s a chance we may be delayed because of weather or other unforeseeable circumstances.

“You guys have a great time next weekend, okay?” Aubrey demands as we’re all packing up our things. “And let me know the second you know if you won.”

“Aubrey, are you sure that you don’t want to come with us?” Phil asks. “We’ve talked about it, and we’d be willing to split our travel reimbursements with you.”

“Yeah, it’s really not fair that you don’t get to go,” I reiterate. “This is your show, too.”

“No, it’s really okay, guys,” Aubrey insists. “I’m from Chicago, so I’m really not missing out on much. Besides, I know that this will be a great opportunity for the two of you to spend the weekend together, you know, away from here.”

She wants it to be some sort of couple’s weekend retreat for us. It sounds dreadfully cheesy, but it also sounds wonderful at the same time. It could be like spring break all over again, if only for a few days.

“Thanks, Aubrey,” I say. “For everything.”

 

 


	31. Golden Headphones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/), who is truly amazing for keeping up with this story for as long as she has.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please return your seat backs and tray tables to their full upright and locked positions, as we are beginning our descent into Chicago O’Hare,” the flight attendant announces in her vaguely Southern accent. It feels like we just reached our cruising altitude a few minutes ago, but then again, the flight from Des Moines to Chicago is only about a hour. Phil and I talked about driving to Chicago, but we decided that flying would be better since Mallard is paying for our travel, and the convention that we’re going to is downtown. We would have had to pay an outrageous fee for overnight parking at the hotel, and Phil wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of driving in downtown traffic.

About 20 minutes later, wheels hit tarmac, and we begin the lengthy process of taxiing to our gate. If there’s one nice thing about Des Moines’ dinky 10 gate airport, it’s that you at least never have to wait to take off, land, or wait in ground traffic trying to taxi to the gate.

“Welcome to Chicago,” the pilot says over the intercom. “Local time is 3:24 PM. It’s a reasonable 65 degrees, and if you have your sun shade raised, you’ll see that it is partly cloudy.”

“Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened until we have reached our gate and the pilot has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign,” the flight attendant reminds us. “Please see the overhead boards in the terminal for gate information for your connecting flights. On behalf of this Atlanta-based flight crew, we wish you a pleasant stay here in Chicago, or wherever your plans may take you.”

“Is Atlanta somewhere in the South?” I ask Phil in a whisper. I vaguely recall that name being mentioned in the American history course that I had to take last semester.

Phil laughs at me. “Yes, it’s in Georgia,” he tells me. I nod, though that didn’t really help me much as I have no idea where Georgia is. Maybe it would have been more beneficial for me to take an American geography course rather than history.  

We eventually make our way off of the plane and into the terminal. We wade through a sea of people who are all chaotically trying to locate their next gate, baggage claim, or sometimes just the nearest toilet. Our plan is to take a train downtown. We navigate to the station and each buy a one way fair from the automated machines. The platform is crowded with travelers and their luggage. When the train pulls into the station, everyone rushes toward the first few cars, but Phil and I wait, and are able to find seats in the rear carriage.

As we pull away, I glance at the route map posted overhead. The blue line, which we’re on, starts at O’Hare and runs into downtown. The other colors encircle the downtown loop and branch out in all different directions, except for east due to Lake Michigan. It’s not so different from the London Underground, except that here, the trains mostly run above ground. Our train moves steadily toward the city center, it’s tracks running in the middle of a freeway for much of the journey. As we go along, the traffic increases, and we begin to outpace the cars. The buildings that I can see in the distance grow taller and closer together. I’ve never really been to this city before, but it feels familiar somehow.

With every stop, the number of passengers with suitcases decreases. The train line dips underground as we near the city center. I count the stations on the map, and see that our stop, Clarke & Lake, isn’t too far away. We arrive a few minutes later, and take the escalator up to street level.

“My phone says that it’s 1.5 miles to the hotel,” Phil informs me. “Do you want to get a cab or an Uber, or are you okay with walking?”

I can tell by his tone that Phil wants to walk. I might normally whine about being forced to exercise, but the weather is nice enough that I don’t really mind. “We can walk,” I tell him. He glances down at the map on his phone, and then orients us in the right direction.

We walk about a block and a half before Phil stops dead in his tracks. He looks at his phone again, then at the street signs on either side of the intersection. Without saying a word to me, he turns around and walks in the opposite direction.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” I ask.

“Yes, now I do,” he calls over his shoulder. I roll my eyes and follow him anyway.

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” I ask after a few minutes. Phil has basically planned our entire trip. I probably should have offered to help, to let him focus on finishing his senior thesis and his post-graduation plans, but somehow it never really occurred to me until now.

“I thought maybe we could check out one of the museums, or maybe the aquarium,” Phil offers.

“You don’t feel bad about skipping out on the conference?” I wonder aloud. Sometimes Phil is too much of a rule-follower for his own good. I think it comes from being an RA, or maybe just from being a decent person, I don’t know.

“Nah,” he responds. “I looked at the programing, and there isn’t really anything that sounds appealing for tomorrow. The opening ceremony is tonight, and Dr. Torres said that we should probably put in an appearance for that. And we obviously have to go to the dinner and awards thing on Saturday, but we can do whatever we want on Friday.”

“So where do you want to go?”

“Maybe the Field Museum?” he suggests. “It’s the natural history museum. They have a T-rex skeleton that’s like one of the most complete in the world or something.”

“That sounds cool,” I admit.

Not long after, we arrive at our hotel, which is also where the conference is being held. The monstrosity of glittering windows is situated very close to where the Chicago River meets the lake. The lobby is spacious and upscale. Our room is equally upscale and outfitted with two plush queen-sized beds. I have a feeling that we’ll only be using one of them.

In the morning, we take a red line train a few stops south to the Field Museum. Phil is as excited as the primary school-aged children that are here on a school trip. He runs up the stone stairs outside of the main entrance two at a time.

The T-rex, called SUE, is exhibited just past the admissions desk. The skeleton is impressively large, and I’m happy to take a few photos of Phil in front of it. Phil then proceeds to eagerly read every word of every placard around the display. They detail how the dinosaur was found, and give some basic information about the species. It is vaguely interesting information, but it starts to bore me quickly because the sentences are written at about an 8-year-old’s reading level.

We go upstairs and walk through the exhibit on the history of the planet, which is basically a walk-through of evolution. There’s a whole room filled with other dinosaurs about halfway through, and Phil is equally fascinated by each and every one of them. I’m bored out of my mind, but I patiently walk along with him.

We also walk through the Hall of Mammals, which is filled with dioramas that combine taxidermy and intricately painted backgrounds in an attempt to show different species in their natural habitats. “Isn’t it a bit creepy that these are all, you know, stuffed?” I ask while we look at a pair of monkeys hanging from a fake tree branch.

“I mean, it’s a little weird, but you have to remember that back when these were made, most people had never seen these animals before. This was the best way the museum had to educate people,” Phil says.

“I guess,” I acknowledge. “What’s with this one?” I ask when I see a diorama with a unique touch screen in front of it.

“Oh, this is the hyenas!” Phil tells me. “This diorama was empty for decades, and the hyenas were in storage. The project to finish it was crowdfunded by a Youtuber and her audience. She makes educational videos and she works here at the museum.”

“That's really cool,” I admit. I guess Dr. Torres was right; Youtube is becoming more and more mainstream.

After that, we spend another hour or so walking through the Egyptian exhibit. I think Phil only agrees to leave the museum because we’re both starving. We take the train back into the loop and buy sandwiches and drinks at a small café. Phil navigates us toward the lake, and he picks the correct direction on the first try this time.

Millennium Park is somewhat crowded with other people that had the same idea as us, but we’re able to find a spot to sit on the grass and eat our lunch. The afternoon sun is warm, and there’s a pleasant breeze coming in off of the lake.

“Phil, is that you?” an unfamiliar female voice calls just after we finish our food. “Oh my god, and Dan, too!”

I look up, and there’s this teenage girl standing ominously over us.

“Hello,” Phil greets her calmly.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here! What are you doing here? I love your videos and your radio show,” she rambles. “I watch it every week!”

“Thank you,” Phil says sincerely. “We certainly appreciate your support.” I try to say thanks as well, but my mouth refuses to cooperate. I’m frozen in place, unable to speak from the shock of the situation. I always knew that Phil’s viewers were out there in the world, but for some reason, I never thought about what it would be like to actually meet one of them.

“Could I get a selfie with you? If it’s not too much trouble?” the girl asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Phil says before standing up.

“You too, Dan,” the fan says.

“Me?” I choke out.

“Yeah, you, silly,” Phil says, pulling me to my feet.

“Oh, could we take the picture with the bean? It’s just over there,” the girl says, pointing toward a row of hedges.

“The bean?” I ask.

“It’s that sculpture I was telling you about yesterday,” Phil clarifies. I don’t recall that conversation, but that’s not entirely surprising. “It’s called Cloud Gate, but people call it The Bean.”

Phil seems to think that this is a great idea, so we follow the fan over to the giant metal bean on its raised platform with the Chicago skyline in the background. The girl takes a photo of our reflections in the shiny, rounded surface. She thanks us again before walking away.

“Does that happen to you often?” I ask Phil. A fan has never approached him when I’ve been with him.

“I wouldn’t say often, no,” Phil replies. We begin walking down the path that weaves through the park with no particular destination in mind.

“But sometimes,” I clarify. “People just come up to you in public like that.” I obviously always knew that the thousands of people that watch our show every week are real people that are out there somewhere. I just never pictured the number of live viewers as individual people before. It’s probably going to make the next show even more terrifying than the first one was.

“Yeah,” Phil admits. “It’s really not a big deal. They’re almost always very nice and harmless. I don’t get recognized often in Des Moines, but it happens sometimes if I’m ever out in public in larger cities. Like when I went to New York for that grad school interview back in February.”

“Did you ever hear back from that school?” I ask. Phil hasn’t mentioned it, and I’d almost forgotten all about it.

“Yeah, I was accepted into the program there and to the one in Memphis,” he tells me.

“Oh, wow, that’s great!” I muster. I should be happy for him. I would be if I weren’t such a selfish person. But just like I can now picture our viewers as real people, I also now have to picture Phil’s inevitable future. He’ll graduate in May, and he’ll start his master’s program a few months later. He’ll continue making Youtube videos. His channel will continue to grow. And I’ll never see him again.

Try as I might, I can’t shake that thought from my head for the rest of the day.

On Saturday, we sleep in late and go to the pizza restaurant that Dr. Torres recommended to us for lunch. The deep-dish pizza is like nothing I’ve ever eaten before. It’s a magical wedge of melted cheese covered with sauce and pepperoni.

In the evening, we put on our suits and prepare to go down to the closing banquet. Except that I’m not wearing my suit, just one that I borrowed from Phil. Luckily for me, Phil owns a blue and a black suit, and we’re basically the same size. I didn’t even have to ask him to let me wear the black one.

We’re assigned seats next to one another at one of the many large, circular tables in the conference room. There are a handful of other students at the table as well as a few faculty members from a school in California. They ask us about our show while we eat our salads and our steaks. They’ve heard of us, it turns out.

There is cheesecake for dessert, which is directly followed by the start of the awards program. I turn to sit sideways in my chair, and catch a glimpse of the small table at the back of the stage on the far end of the room. There are six trophies on the table, all shaped like a pair of studio headphones and all glittering gold.

The presenter takes the stage and introduces himself as the president of the College Associated Press. He gives a speech about how he was so impressed by all of the award nominees, and how he hopes that we all learned something at the conference. Then come the awards. The video production categories are presented first, because when does TV ever not take the opportunity to overshadow radio?

The anticipation fills me with nervous energy. I fake a smile and clap for the winners, but inside, I'm finding it difficult to sit still.

Finally, they introduce our category. I avert my eyes in embarrassment when they play a clip from our show. “That’s right folks, that was a  _ radio _ show that I just showed you a  _ video _ of,” the presenter emphasizes. We listen to audio clips from our competitors. The contrast is stark.

No one in the room seems particularly surprised when Phil and I are called to the stage to accept our award. I realize in a sudden panic that I haven’t prepared anything to say. Thankfully, Phil has. I stare out into the bright lights while Phil thanks all of the people that we’re supposed to thank. I feel golden.

Phil deserves this moment so much. I hope he knows that. I hope he has the chance to take it all in. These are our golden days. They may be numbered, but they're not over yet. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aforementioned Youtuber is Emily Graslie. Her channel is called [The Brain Scoop](https://www.youtube.com/user/thebrainscoop).


	32. Three Little Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). Thanks!

I told Phil that this was a terrible idea.

“As today is Easter, I’ve come up with an Easter-themed game for us to play during the next song,” Phil explains to the audience. “I’ve created a sort of obstacle course made out of boxes of peeps and chocolate eggs on the studio floor that we’re going to try and hop through like Easter rabbits.” For some strange reason, Phil seems genuinely excited by this prospect.

“You just wanted an excuse to buy ten packages of peeps, didn’t you?” I accuse.

“Maybe,” Phil admits, making a pouting face at the camera.

“And aren't you even a tiny bit concerned that we might fall on our faces trying to do this?” I ask, looking around at the boxes stacked around my legs. For a clumsy person like myself, this charade seems to be a clear and present danger to my health and safety.

“Nah, it’ll be fun!” Phil asserts. “And while we do that, here’s Green Day with Holiday.”

“A song that is definitely not about Easter,” I add. “If you’d like to watch me fall and literally die live on camera, you can do so on our website, mallard.edu/studentradio.”

I make Phil go first. He hops over several rows of boxes successfully, but eventually knocks two of them over. We decide that it’s my turn, and we’ll see if I can get further into the course. I’m not actually worried about falling and hurting myself, it’s just that I’d really rather not engage in any sort of activities that even remotely resemble exercise. I make a meager attempt at the task, but I purposely fall a bit short of Phil’s mark.

I congratulate Phil as the winner of our little contest, and Aubrey gives me this look that says she knows that I lost on purpose. So what if I did?

Phil munches on peeps throughout the rest of the show. He does at least offer to share with Aubrey and me, but I’m not a huge fan of the sticky marshmallow birds. After the show ends, Phil and I stay even longer than Aubrey since we have to pack up all of Phil’s Easter treats.

“Any plans for the evening?” Phil asks me.

“No,” I say. I probably have at least one project that I should work on, but I almost never have the motivation to be productive after a radio show.

“Do you feel like going on a little adventure?” Phil asks me with a coy smile on his face, after he places the last box of peeps into the plastic bag.

“Sure,” I respond with only a small amount of hesitation. Phil seems like he might be up to something, but it will probably work out in my favor.

“Okay,” he says. We sling our backpacks over our shoulders, gather the bags of candy, and exit the studio. Phil remembers to shut off the lights and lock the door behind us. It’s a good thing that one of us is a responsible human being.

We climb the stairs to the ground floor, and then Phil turns in the opposite direction of the doors that we normally leave through. We exit on the east side of the building and continue southeast, toward the library.

Spring has come reluctantly this year. We’ve been tormented by weeks of cloudy, rainy days, but they seem to have finally ended. Today was warm and sunny, and even though the sun set long ago, the night air is still mild.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Not far,” is his response. We reach Painted Street, the stretch of sidewalk that runs through this part of campus. The normally colourful squares have been painted over with a thick layer of white primer. The street will be repainted by groups of students this coming Friday in preparation for Mallard Relays, a supposedly giant, world-renowned track and field event held here every year. It’s something that people have been talking about all year, but I’m not entirely sure what to expect other than a considerable amount of visitors to campus and many, many frat parties.

Phil directs us to the door of Jefferson Residence Hall, which sits along Painted Street directly across from the library. We have to ring the doorbell since neither of us have ID badge access to this building.

“Hey Phil,” greets the on-duty RA who comes to answer the door. He’s a shorter guy, with light brown hair, wearing a Mallard hoodie not unlike the one that I own. Of course he knows Phil; why am I not surprised?

“Hey Trevor,” Phil says. “Can we go upstairs for a bit? I want to scope out my filming spot for Friday.”

“Yeah, sure thing, man,” Trevor replies, inviting us into his lobby with a wave of his arm.

Jefferson is a sophomore dorm, and it’s one of the oldest buildings on campus. I have to duck to avoid hitting my head on the doorframe. We walk through the small lobby filled with antique furniture to another door labeled “stairs”. The stairwell is equally cramped and narrow, and the steps creak under our weight as we climb our way up.

“Are you going to film everyone painting the street on Friday?” I ask Phil as we climb the stairs. I assume that we’re headed for a fourth floor window, or possible the roof.

“Sort of,” he replies. “I’ll probably set up a time lapse of the official square painting, but what I’m really interested in is the paint fight, of course.”

“Paint fight?” I ask. I’m certainly intrigued by this concept.

“You don’t know about that part?” Phil looks back at me with a quizzical expression on his face. I shake my head. “That’s, like, the whole point of street painting! The student organizations paint their squares in the early afternoon, and then everyone else turns up around 3 and steals all of the left-over paint and starts throwing it at each other.”

“That sounds incredibly messy, but incredibly fun at the same time,” I conclude as we reach the very top of the stairwell. Phil pushes open the door that leads out onto the flat roof.

“Precisely,” he affirms. I follow him over to the parapet overlooking the currently blank painted street. “And this is where I’m going to film it from.”

“Looks like a pretty good view,” I comment, still not really sure why we’re here so late at night.

Phil sets down the bags in his hands, removes his backpack, and leans it against the ledge. He then pulls a plastic tote that I hadn’t noticed before out from a dark corner. 

“I’ve already got some stuff stashed up here,” he explains. He opens the container and removes two pillows, a blanket, and some sort of rolled-up mat that might have originally been sold as a camping mattress. Phil sticks some of the candy in the plastic box, so I’m guessing that we came here to stash some of it for Friday. “This is the only rooftop on campus that students can access, if you know the right people,” he tells me. “For some reason, they’ve still never put an alarm on the access door like in all of the other dorms. So it’ll be a great spot for filming, but it’s also great for just hanging out and looking at the stars.”

I glance up at the night sky for the first time while Phil unrolls the mat. We’re in the middle of an urban area, but the city is small enough that a good number of stars are still clearly visible. Phil lies down on the mat, and I follow his lead. We look up at the sky for a few moments, and then Phil snuggles up close to me and lays his head on my shoulder and his arm across my chest.

“This feels nice,” I comment, returning his embrace. “Thanks for inviting me up here with you.”

“Thanks for coming,” he replies. “Sometimes, I want to stay like this forever,” he says. He turns his head slightly to look up at the stars once more. “Sometimes, it seems like if I keep staring at them for long enough, the stars will reveal their secrets to me. Maybe then I would have a better understanding of why things happen they way that they do.”

It doesn’t seem fair that I only have a few weeks left to spend here in Iowa, and that Phil and I will have to part ways so soon. At least, I think that’s what he’s referring to. “Do you ever wonder about how your life would be different if certain little things had gone differently?” I ask. “Like, how much some decisions can change the entire course of your life or whatever?”

“Yeah, I do,” Phil says. “Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if my parents hadn’t decided to move to Florida. Our house there was originally supposed to be a vacation home. But, on a whim, my dad applied for a few jobs there and actually got one. So, my life would have been very different if that one thing hadn’t happened.”

“Exactly. For me, coming here probably changed everything,” I comment. Oddly enough, being sent to the middle of a giant cornfield turned out to be a blessing rather than a curse. “Does it bother you that you’ll never know how things would have gone otherwise?”

“Do you regret coming here?” Phil’s voice is decidedly concerned.

“No, of course not,” I tell him.

“But…?”

“But that doesn’t keep me from wondering what would have happened if I had stayed in England.” My life would probably have been decidedly more miserable, but I also probably wouldn’t be faced with impending heartbreak right now. “Do you think that… This is stupid, but do you think that if your family had stayed in England, that we still would have met somehow?” I ask.

“I suppose it’s possible,” Phil says.

“Sometimes I feel like the whole reason I ended up here was to meet you,” I confess.

Phil’s hand cups my cheek, pulling my face toward him so that he can kiss me. His lips taste sugary sweet, evidence of the peeps he ate earlier. But I notice this for only a moment, as I am quickly overwhelmed by the sensation of his tongue against mine. I run my hand slowly up and down his side, and he holds me tightly.

“I'm very glad that you came here, Dan,” he whispers after breaking our kiss. “I feel so lucky to have you in my life.”

“Me too,” I say while stroking his hair. I can’t help but think that I have gotten far more benefit out of knowing Phil than he has from me.

“My parents are really excited to meet you,” Phil casually mentions out of nowhere.

My heart nearly stops beating in my chest. “What are you talking about?” I demand. Meeting Phil’s parents was not something that I had ever considered.

“Well, they’ll be here for my graduation, of course,” he says. “You said that you were staying for that, right?”

He’s right; I did say that. It cost me almost a hundred pounds to change my flight from Friday to Monday, but the extra weekend with Phil seemed well worth it at the time. “Yeah, I’m staying for that weekend,” I tell him. I envisioned us spending the entirety of that Saturday just lounging in bed together, savoring our final moments. And the next day, I will watch him graduate. And his parents will be there, too. Why did that small detail never occur to me?

“Right,” Phil says. “So you can come out to dinner with my family and stuff. My brother and his girlfriend will be here, too.”

Phil’s telling me this like it’s some exciting opportunity, but to me, it sounds like a nightmare. “Do they… do they know about us?” I choke out.

“No! God, no,” he says. “I didn’t think that it would be a good idea to publicize that to anyone, really, given the circumstances.”

“Ok, good,” I breathe out. At least I won’t have to bear the scrutiny that would come with being the guy that turned their perfectly respectable son gay, or whatever else they might assume. No, it’s better that they not know.

“But I still really want them to meet you,” he adds.

“I… I mean, why?” Sure, it might be inevitable that I will meet them, given that we’ll all be attending the same graduation ceremony to support Phil, but I don’t understand why that would be something that he particularly wants to happen.

“Because you’re important to me,” Phil says. “They know that you’ve helped me so much with the radio show, and that you’re a big part of my life right now. I mean, I talk about you all the time.”

“You do?” I don’t know why it still constantly surprises me that Phil cares about me, but it does. I still feel unworthy of him in every way.

“Yeah, I do. Honestly, I think that my mom might suspect that I have feelings for you,” he admits.

“Mums are like that sometimes,” I comment. “Mine might suspect the same thing if I talked to her more often.”

“Yeah?” Phil asks.

“Yeah,” I affirm. We’re lying on our sides now, facing one another. Our hands continue to explore, and Phil combs his fingers through my hair. He stares at me with a heavy sincerity in his eyes. My heart swells. His lips part momentarily like he wants to say something, but he holds himself back.

“What is it?” I prompt him.

Phil hesitates, and then says, “I know that this is going to sound crazy, but I want to tell you something.”

My eyes scan over his face, but I cannot guess his meaning. “Okay,” I say.

“I love you,” he says. The notion is so absurd to me that I have to laugh. “I know that it’s probably too soon to be saying that, but I mean it, Dan. I love you,” he repeats, and those three little words are enough to ruin me.

“I love you, too,” I whisper, because I do. Of course I do. How could I not love this boy with his kind heart, his immeasurable creativity, and a golden smile that could light up even the darkest of rooms? I think that in some way, I’ve loved him since the first day that we met. I kiss him again, more forcefully this time. He says that he loves me, but I know that he can never love me as much as I love him.

Maybe Phil is right; maybe our fates are written somewhere in the stars, and maybe if we stare long enough, we’ll begin to understand. But there are a few things that I already know: if fate is real, it sure as hell isn’t fair, at least not to Phil and me. The stars don’t give a damn.

 

 


	33. Colours in the Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

It doesn’t get better than this.

I woke up a few minutes ago in Phil’s bed to the delicious sensation of him kissing my neck. The morning sun is peaking through the cracks in the blinds, but it's Friday, so neither of us have anywhere to be for the next few hours.

“Good morning,” I murmur. Phil moves to kiss my mouth, and he quickly accelerates the pace and intensity. He shifts his body so that he’s lying more on top of me, and I can feel that he’s hard against my thigh.

“Good morning,” he returns, beginning to grind against me. “I really want you right now,” Phil says, his voice sounding a bit deeper than usual.

We went to a party last night, the official kick off of Mallard Relays, and both had a bit too much alcohol in our systems to want to fuck last night. Surprisingly, Phil made no objections to my underage drinking , but he did force me to drink a large amount of water before we fell asleep. That’s probably why I don’t have a hangover right now.

“Then have me,” I whisper, my hand on the side of his face. I’m not sure whether I sound sexy or ridiculous, but Phil doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses my neck again, then works his way down my body, kissing my collarbone, my chest, my stomach, until he reaches the waistband of my boxers. He pauses to pull them off, and he teases me by kissing my thighs, my hipbones, my stomach – everything but my cock, which is now decidedly intrigued by his presence.

“Phil,” I groan, hoping to encourage him to get on with whatever he has in mind. I can’t take his teasing for much longer.

Finally, he wraps his lips around my shaft, and flicks his tongue against the head of my cock. His hand skillfully works at the base as he moves he head up and down, sucking as he goes. I know that I won’t last long like this. He pulls off suddenly and places gentle kisses down the side of my dick, giving me a chance to catch my breath. He quickly returns to sucking me off. I squint my eyes closed and burry my fingers in his hair, fisting the sheets with my other hand. I expect him to start fingering me at any moment, but he doesn’t.

“I’m gonna come,” I manage to warn him so that he can stop and move on to fucking me. But his lips persist in their rhythmic movements, and it’s not long before I spill into his mouth. He swallows, and his hand gently works me through my high.

He moves back up the bed and hovers over me. I take a few moments to catch my breath again, and then I pull him down to kiss me. I taste my own saltiness on his lips, and he grinds against my leg once again. I work his cock with my hand while we kiss a bit longer.

“Your turn,” I say, encouraging him to turn over so that I can be on top. The maneuver isn’t easy in his tiny single bed, but we’re well practiced at this by now.

I kiss his lower abdomen several times before moving on to wrap my lips around him. I mimic his movements as best as I can. I’ve done this to him a few times now, but I know that I’m not nearly as skilled as he is. I alternate between sucking up and down and encircling his head with my tongue, making sure to keep a rhythm going with my fist. I don’t know whether I’m getting better at his, or he was just closer from the start this morning, but it doesn’t take him long to come. I fight to swallow down the bitterness, and then move to lay on top of him, my head resting against his chest.

We lie there for some time, tracing patterns on each other’s skin and languidly kissing when we feel like it. We’ll need to get up and work on things for the radio show soon, as we need to have that done before we go to street painting in the afternoon. But for now, we choose to lay here and forget the world.

I let my mind wander, and it eventually lands on my as of yet unknown future, as it so often does. “Do you think you might ever come visit me after I go home?” I ask in a timid voice. “Maybe when you’re over there to visit your grandparents?”

Phil looks surprised by the suggestion. “I would like to, yeah,” he says. “But I thought we decided that we weren’t going to try to keep this up long distance?”

He’s right, of course. From the beginning of our relationship, we agreed that whatever this would become, it was predestined to expire the day I fly back to England. Long distance is a recipe for slowly growing resentment, heartbreak, and disaster. I know that.

“Yeah, but I’d still like to see you again,” I tell him. “I could take the train up to Manchester or wherever you’re staying. Even if we just meet for lunch or coffee or something.” The idea of literally never seeing him is too much to bear.

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Phil says.

I want to ask him if he’s ever thought about living in England, maybe after he’s finished with grad school. He has dual citizenship, so he wouldn’t even need to have a job lined up for fill out any special paperwork to move there. He can run his Youtube channel from anywhere, and he ought to be able to find a job in video or radio production if he needs to supplement his income. It seems perfectly reasonable, at least from my perspective. But I know that it’s not my place to ask him to do that for me. Phil is very close to his parents and to his brother. I can’t imagine him being okay with living on a different continent than them. I love him, and he loves me, but sometimes that’s not enough.

But maybe we can continue to be friends. I’d like that, I think.

 

In the early afternoon, I help Phil carry a few cans of paint over to the soon-to-be-painted street. He has already been over here earlier to start his time-lapse footage that he’s filming from the roof. Phil instructed me to wear clothes that I didn’t care about ruining, so I’ve put on a white t-shirt that I got for free at a Mallard basketball game and a pair of shorts that I despise. Phil is wearing a shirt and track bottoms that have already been ruined at street paintings past. The grey fabric is streaked and speckled with green, blue, pink, and yellow paint, just to name a few. He’s also wearing a bandana on his head to keep the paint out of his hair, a strategy that I notice a lot of the girls walking toward painted street have also employed.

As we get closer, I see that the groundskeepers have wrapped the bases of the nearby trees in cling film and covered the bushes with tarps to protect them from the impending paint war. Student Senate has provided a giant sound system on the back of a truck for our entertainment. This appears to be an even larger event than I was anticipating.

We locate the square on the sidewalk designated to the broadcast club, and meet up with Tara, a junior TV production and visual arts double major. Due to her having considerably more actual artistic talent than the rest of us in the club, she was assigned the task of drawing our design onto the square with chalk. There are two other TV production students who are starting to work on coloring in the lines. I know that Phil has introduced me to them before, but their names escape me.

“Hey guys, how’s it going?” Phil greets them.

“Hey, Phil!” Tara returns. “Did you bring the green and the yellow from last year?”

“Yup,” I respond, holding up the can of paint in my hand.

“Great!” Tara says. “Now we can make the ducks look like ducks.”

Mallard Relays have a theme every year, and the squares painted on Painted Street have to depict this theme and visually explain how the mission of the student organization aligns with this theme. The theme this year is “Beyond the Finish Line”, so Tara’s design portrays a personified Mallard duck who has just won some kind of sporting event being interviewed by another duck with a microphone in its wing. A line of text at the top of the square reads “Mallard Broadcast Club”, and another at the bottom says “Celebrating Success Together”. It’s meant to convey our role in bringing the Mallard community together, though I doubt that anyone really tunes in to student TV or radio for Relays news coverage. I do appreciate that the design doesn’t specify if the duck with the microphone is a TV or radio reporter, though.

“I think we’re going to head out and grab some lunch,” one of the guys that I don’t recognize says. “We’ve been here since 10:30 doing the background painting,” he adds as justification.

“Ok, sounds good, Chris,” Tara says, and the two boys gather their things and leave. Tara hands me a small foam paintbrush and asks me to start working on the duck’s beaks and feet, the areas that need to be painted yellow. Phil works on the green of the feathers while Tara finishes outlining the bottom line of text.

Aubrey and one of her producer friends show up a bit later with a can of light green paint, which is to be used for the grassy background at the base of the image. I have to apply multiple coats of yellow in order to prevent the bright blue background colour from bleeding through and making the ducks look a bit nauseous. The words at the top and bottom of the image are to be done in yellow as well, so I move on to that after I finish with the ducks. I do my best to stay within Tara’s lines, though she assures me that it doesn't have to be perfect.

After our paint dries, Tara comes back through and outlines everything with black to make the shapes stand out. The ducks are actually quite expressive, and the duck being interviewed looks both tired from his performance and ecstatic from his victory.

As time passes, more and more people begin to crowd the area. Many students participate in painting the street, but many, many more come just for the paint war. Phil instructs me to guard our cans of paint, because the people that have come just to cause trouble will try to steal it. I watch as a few boys dunk their hands into unguarded cans on the other side of the sidewalk and fling handfuls of paint at their friends. There are just a few isolated incidents at first, and then the mindset of retaliation sweeps through the crowd.

Tara seals up the cans that she wants to try and save for next year and places them in the middle of our square. I take the can of blue paint that is almost empty and slap a handful of it onto Phil’s shoulder when he’s not looking.

“I hate you,” Phil turns and snaps at me. His words sound harsh, but he’s smiling at me while he says them, so I know that he really means exactly the opposite. He picks up one of our trays of paint and throws some at me. It lands on my face and chest. Aubrey joins in to aid Phil is his revenge, flicking a paintbrush dripping with green paint at me.

We back up away from our square, not wanting to ruin all of our hard work with random splatters. Tara stays behind to guard her design from the onslaught of strangers. Phil and I playfully slap one another with hands covered in wet paint, and we giggle like schoolchildren. Random people that we don’t even know run past and splatter us with paint. We try to throw paint back at them, but end up mostly painting the grass. My face, my clothes, and my hands and feet are covered in a rainbow of paint. I don’t remember ever feeling this messy before, but it’s so, so much fun.

Once the shenanigans begin to die down and we run out of paint to throw, Phil and I head back to our respective dorms. There is a member of the housekeeping staff waiting at the door to Carpenter with a hose and a bucket, tasked with making certain that none of us track wet paint into the building. The water is cold, and not very effective at removing any of the paint that has already dried against my skin.

I spend almost half an hour in the shower attempting to scrub the paint off of my skin and out of my hair. The water has gone cold and my fingers are thoroughly pruned by the time I’m finished.

Phil’s going out for dinner and drinks with the other seniors in broadcast club, a sort of  last hurrah as a class before graduation, so I’m on my own for the time being. There are bound to be countless parties tonight on Greek Street now that Relays week has officially begun, so I might see if Tom and Aubrey are up for that later. But for now, I’ve got some time to get lost in my own thoughts.

I lie on my bed and stare up at the ceiling for quite some time. I could work on homework, but that seems entirely too lame for a Friday evening. Everything is ready to go for the radio show on Sunday, so there’s nothing to work on there, either. Except…

I grab my laptop from my desk and navigate to the website that I’ve been visiting and staring at for over a week now. I’ve completed the application, and I’ve even asked Dr. Torres to write a letter of recommendation for me. I just haven’t found the courage to hit the submit button.

The internship is perfect for me. Working for BBC Radio 1 would allow me to continue working in radio, which I love, and would also require me to live in London, a reasonable distance away from my family. Granted, being an intern there would probably involve more things like getting coffee for people than actual radio production, but it would be a start. There’s just one problem: they are seeking a candidate who has completed their uni degree.

So it’s foolish for me to hope, really. But here I am, hoping anyway.

I read through every word of my application one more time to make sure that I haven’t accidentally spelled my own name wrong or something. That sounds like something that I would do. I reread my cover letter, and I hope that my words sound sincere, and that I’ve presented sufficient evidence as to why I deserve this opportunity.

Do I deserve this opportunity? My humble college radio show would be absolutely nothing without Phil and Aubrey. But I’ve learned so much from them, to be sure.

I hover my cursor over the button, take a deep breath, and click. 

 

 

 


	34. Racing Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/). Thank you!

I don’t know who came up with the brilliant idea for the broadcast club to participate in this fundraiser, but I want to fucking kill them.

Phil insists that he had nothing to do with it, that they’ve been doing this longer than he’s been at Mallard. I still hold him at least partly responsible. He’s the one who insisted that all members must take at least one shift working the concession stand at the stadium where the Mallard Relays are taking place. He’s also the one who signed us both up for the first shift on Friday morning, meaning that we have to be there at 7 AM. He wanted to make sure that things started out smoothly, he said. It will be nice to get it over with, he said.

I hate him.

“I promise I’ll make this up to you,” Phil tells me as we’re walking down the street along the north edge of campus. The stadium doesn’t open to spectators until 7:30, but there are already a swarm of cars clamoring for the limited amount of parking. These people are crazy.

“Do they sell coffee at this place? I think you had better at least buy me coffee,” I say in return.

Phil laughs. “You can drink all of the coffee and water that you want for free while you’re working there. We do get charged if you eat any of the food or drink any of the soda, though.”

I nod my head. The club apparently makes a significant amount of money by staffing a concession stand on the Friday and Saturday of Relays every year. It’s enough to account for the majority of their annual fundraising quota, so I do understand why they do it. I just don’t particularly feel like being conscious, let alone outdoors right now.

We arrive at the south gate and walk past the crowd of people waiting for general admission to begin. Phil tells the gate agent that we’re there to work a concession stand, and we present our student ID’s. The large, bald man in the bright yellow security shirt opens the gate for us and lets us pass through.

Inside, the corridor is mostly empty. We turn to the right and walk about halfway around the bend of the oval-shaped building before finding our stand. A representative from the food service company is there to tell us what needs to be done, which mostly involves taking an inventory of every hot dog, pretzel, slice of pizza, and bottle of soda that we have on hand. We also have to count the cups for the coffee and the fountain drinks and the bags for the popcorn.

Thankfully, the weather has been delightfully mild this week. It was warm enough this morning that I didn’t need to wear a jacket. However, there is already a fan blowing in the corner of our little hole in the wall, which might indicate that it’s going to get hot in here as the morning progresses. Luckily, Phil and I only have to stay until noon.

I’m assigned the task of counting the money in the till from the day before. The one, five, ten, and twenty dollar bills are already segregated into separate compartments of the drawer, which I am grateful for, as they all sort of look the same to me. They really ought to make them different colours or something.

“American money is so boring,” I say to Phil.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s got a nice texture, though.” The bills are soft, almost like a cross between paper and fabric.

“Hmm, yes, perfect for putting in strippers,” I comment, holding up a stack of dollars and fanning them out in front of my face. Phil giggles. “Well, not in the strippers, in their waistbands,” I correct.

There’s a laminated list of all of the menu items and their prices taped to the metal counter next to the till. The tape is starting the peel up at the corners, and I make a feeble attempt to stick it back down, but there is too much dirt and gunk between the adhesive and the countertop. The soda fountain and the pretzel warmer also look like they have seen better days.

The dude in charge tells Phil to stick two of the pizzas in the warmer. “Who the hell would buy a slice of pizza at 7:30 in the morning?” I ask Phil.

“It’s breakfast pizza,” he tells me as if that is a perfectly logical explanation. First they have taco pizza, and now breakfast pizza topped with scrambled egg, cheese, and bacon? Americans are so strange.

The first events begin, and we can hear the announcer and the crack of the starting pistol from inside our stand. We spend the first hour or so that we’re open just selling coffee to the spectators and bottles of water and Gatorade to the athletes. Most of the participants appear to be about our age, but some seem considerably younger. 

“This is mostly a collegiate track meet, right?” I ask.

“No, there are just as many high school teams here, actually,” he corrects me. “There are high school, collegiate, and professional-level events.”

This is one of the largest track and field events in the country, and it's certainly Mallard’s most legitimate claim to fame, so I can see why the university makes such a big deal out of it. It’s an excuse for students to party and for alumni to come back to campus to relive their glory days. I wonder if the experience ever really lives up to their nostalgic expectations.

Around 10 o’clock, a group of 5 or 6 12-year-old girls comes up to buy candy and popcorn from us. I feel this inward shudder of paranoia and wonder whether one of them might recognize us from the Internet. Phil must see my eyes widen with fear, because he swoops in to take their order for me. He greets them cheerfully and asks if they are enjoying the races while I scoop their popcorn from the machine. The interaction is entirely uneventful, and I feel incredibly stupid for reacting the way I did.

“You okay?” Phil asks me a bit later.

“Yeah,” I answer. I know that I need to get over this. I can’t go through life being afraid of 12-year-old girls.

“They’re really not scary, you know,” Phil says. “Even the ones that do recognize me. They might be shocked and excited, but they’re relatively harmless.”

It’s quite the contradiction, talking about our mild online celebrity status while serving greasy food to strangers. We start to get busy around 11, and a long line forms down the corridor. I run back and forth gathering popcorn and filling tiny plastic cups with melted cheese for the pretzels while Phil takes orders and handles the money. Between the heat from the machines keeping the food warm and the steady flow of business, I definitely break a sweat.

The one good thing about this development is that the last hour of our shift absolutely flies by. Before I know it, Aubrey and two other girls are walking through the door, here to take our place. 

“I’ve never been so glad to see you in my life,” I say to Aubrey.

“Having fun, I take it?” she asks. I roll my eyes dramatically in return.

Phil and I spend a few minutes teaching our replacements what they need to do. When the clock on the wall reads 12:00, I walk over and stand by the door. Our shift has ended, and I want to get out of this sweatbox, but Phil is too good of a person for that. Instead, he stays and helps work the till for seven more minutes while the girls get oriented to the workflow.

“Sorry, sorry,” Phil says to me once he’s finally ready to leave.

“It’s fine,” I reply, simply not wanting to cause trouble. This is really just another example of why he’s too good for me.

We navigate through the crowd that has swarmed the stadium corridor, hungry for lunch. Outside, the pavement is equally packed. It takes three times longer to walk back to the dorms than it would on a normal day.

Suddenly, Phil perks up and turns toward me, childish excitement on his face. “You know what we should do?” Phil asks me.

“Go take a nap?” I suggest.

“No, we should go pet the puppies!”

“Puppies?” I repeat. What puppies?

“Yeah! The student activity board brings a bunch of dogs to campus on the Friday of relays for everyone to go and play with for a bit. It’s supposed to help reduce stress or something,” he explains.

“So they’re like therapy dogs?” I inquire.

“Yeah, sort of,” he says. And sure enough, there is a crowd of people on Henderson Commons waiting their turn to pet one of two dozen or so dogs. This may be one of the best ideas that Phil has ever had. It’s almost enough for me to forgive him for making me wake up at the crack of dawn this morning.

“You know what they should do instead of therapy dogs?” Phil asks while we wait our turn.

“What?”

“Therapy ducks,” he says. “You know, since we’re the Mallard Ducks.”

“Phil, do you really think there’s such a thing as a therapy duck?” I ask.

“There totally is! One of my psych major friends told me about it one time. These people kept a duck in their lab and taught it how to read.”

“Bullshit,” I declare.

“No, really! It could read like, seven words or something,” he insists.

“Would you really want to pet a duck, though?”

“No, probably not,” he agrees, looking a bit downtrodden.

As fate would have it, the dog that becomes available when we’re at the front of the line is a terrier mix not dissimilar to my family dog back in England. Her owner, a friendly elderly lady, tells us that her name is Sarah, and that she just loves coming to campus every year to be petted by all of the college kids.

“I just love when dogs have human names,” Phil comments while scratching behind Sarah’s ear. “I want to get a dog and name it Susan.”

“Susan? You can’t be serious.” For some reason, I take offense to this idea as if I would actually have a say in the matter. As if this hypothetical dog would also be mine somehow. Wouldn’t it be amazing, though, if we were to somehow live together in the future and get a dog? My heart sinks a little knowing that that’s just not possible. 

“I just really like the name Susan, I guess,” Phil says with a shrug of his shoulders.

I stroke Sarah a few more times and tell her that she’s a good dog. In just a few weeks, I’ll be flying back to London. At least there will be a dog waiting for me at my parent’s house.

“Is that what you meant when you said you’d make it up to me for working the concession stand?” I ask Phil as we’re walking away.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t actually,” he says.

“What did you have in mind, then?” I question.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Phil responds rather cryptically. I can tell that he’s teasing me on purpose.

We spend the afternoon prepping Sunday’s radio show, and return to the stadium to watch a few of the races in the evening with some of our FYS friends. I wonder if Phil is planning to buy me ice cream or something from our concession stand as my reward, but he doesn't say anything of it. The races are mildly entertaining, though I never know who I should be cheering for, since there is rarely a Mallard student competing in any of the events.

Tom invites us along to a party that he knows about afterwards, and Phil agrees to come along. He tells me that drinking is just a part of relays, and that he’s willing to overlook the illegality of partying with a bunch of freshmen on account of the occasion. I wonder again if this is him making it up to me, but again he tells me to be patient.

I follow him to his room later that night, pleasantly intoxicated, but not sloppily so. We're kissing feverishly before the door even clicks shut behind us. Phil pushes me back against it and grinds against me while sucking on my neck just beneath my jawbone.

We pause only to remove our clothing as we make our way to the bed. Phil pushes me down gently and then moves to straddle my hips. He leans down and kisses me hungrily for a few more moments before pulling away to whisper something in my ear. “What’s something that you want to do that we haven’t tried yet?” he asks me.

My mind swirls with possibilities. I could probably ask for any number of kinky things that I might not normally get away with. “Hmmm, anything that I want?” I ask, my fingers gripping his hair tightly.

“Anything that I am physically capable of, yeah.” Really, I should probably take advantage of this opportunity to really push the boundaries, but one particular thing pops into my head first, and it’s something that I’ve been wanting for quite some time now.

I push against Phil’s shoulder and flip us over so that I’m on top. “I want to fuck you,” I tell him. He smiles up at me, perhaps amused by either the suggestion or by my assertiveness.

“I’d like that,” Phil says. “It’s good to switch things up every once in awhile.”

I go back to kissing him and grind our hips together once more. We’re both fully hard already, so I search for the lube, eager to move things along. I take my time in prepping him, though; since I have no idea how long it’s been since he’s done this. I make sure to find his prostate a few times, and I suck his cock while I finger him, remembering how that always drives me wild.

“Ready?” I ask once I think I’ve stretched him adequately.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “God, you're good at that,” he adds while I roll a condom on.

“Thanks,” I say, climbing back on top of him. I reconnect our lips as he guides my cock to his hole. As I push in, I an enveloped by a deliciously wet heat. He’s so tight even though I stretched him well. This is truly unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. I slowly push in as far as I can go, then pause to let us both adjust. I have to break our kiss to catch my breath and to focus on not coming instantly when I start moving again.

I work him with my hand, supporting my weight on my opposite elbow as I fuck him. I have to make him come. I’ll feel like such a failure if I don’t. I won’t be able to hold back for very long, so I pump him rapidly. We’re both breathing so heavily that we stop moving our lips and just breathe against one another. Phil’s breaths grow faster and faster, and I feel him shudder beneath me. He spills over my wrist, and I let myself go instantaneously.

My orgasm is so intense that it takes seemingly forever for me to come down enough to be able to even move. “That was amazing,” I pant.

“You’re amazing,” Phil returns. “I don’t ever want to let you go.” I certainly don’t want him to. 

“I love you,” I remind him. It bears repeating on a regular basis, I feel. 

“I love you,” he repeats, and punctuates the statement with another kiss.

 

 

 


	35. Better Than Expected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

There is only one more week of classes before finals begin. This means that I have two projects to finish and three term papers to write before the end of the semester. It also means that Phil and I only have two radio shows left to put on. We’ve gotten into a regular rhythm in the last month or so, and our weekly planning meetings don’t take nearly as long as they used to. But maybe that’s because we spend so much of our free time together now that we sometimes end up discussing the show at random times, like over dinner or in bed. I’m hoping that our meeting today will be short, because I really need to work on my final project for my video production class. I need to do that in the Meriden editing lab, because Mallard has money for software that I can’t possibly afford.

The weather has been absolutely gorgeous lately, which has made it difficult for everyone to find the motivation to study. I leave Carpenter early in the afternoon and head toward Meriden. Along the way, I pass a group of students who have tied hammocks to the trees on the south end of Henderson Commons and are lounging about in the shade. There are also several people who are lying out on towels in the sun. Maybe if I hadn’t put off all of my major projects until the last minute, I could join them. But no, the basement of Meriden will claim me for yet another day.

I find Phil in our usual spot, the large table in the back corner of the study area.

“Hey,” he says with a small wave. He looks happy to see me, even more so than usual.

“Hi,” I return. “What’s up?” He’s practically bouncing up and down in his seat, as though he has something exciting to tell me.

“I think I’ve made a decision,” Phil tells me.

“About what?” I ask.

“About grad school,” he clarifies. “I’m going to accept the spot in the program at NYU.” So Phil is going to get a master’s degree in New York. His whole face is lit up with excitement, and I can see that he’s happy with this decision.

“That’s great,” I say. It will suit him well, I think, living in New York. He will thrive in a large city filled with numerous other creative minds. I have no doubt that he will go on to do incredible things, either in the film industry or on his own, on Youtube.

“Yeah, I really think so,” Phil says. “I’m looking forward to it. Although I’m a little sad that I’ll have to give up the radio stuff and just focus on video production.”

“It is sort of odd that out of the two of us, I’m the one who is trying to stick with radio,” I say.

“I don’t think so,” Phil disagrees. “You have this natural charisma on air that I’ve never been able to replicate.”

“What are you talking about? You always do a great job.”

“I do alright, but you’re just better at talking to people than I am. You’re better at the humor,” Phil says.

I shake my head. I still don’t really see myself that way, but I suppose Phil has repeated these sentiments often enough now that I’ve allowed myself to hope that the BBC might agree with him.

“Have you heard anything back about your internship?” Phil asks me.

“No,” I answer. “But I only submitted the application two weeks ago.”

“Yeah. At this point, no news is good news,” Phil says. “They probably haven't sent out acceptances or rejections yet.”

I nod, and we transition our conversation to focus on this Sunday’s show. I spend some time researching my Internet news stories, and Phil comes up with a Dan versus Phil game for us to play. We iron out a few other details, and then wrap up early, just as I had expected.

Dr. Torres peaks her head in just as we’re packing up our things.

“Hello, boys,” she says.

“Hello,” we chime back in unison.

“It looks like you’re hard at work as always. Dan, have you heard anything back from Radio 1 yet?” she asks, looking in my direction with hopeful eyes.

“No, not yet,” I tell her.

“Well, be sure to let me know when you do,” she says. “I’m curious to see what they think of my suggestion.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I don’t think she’s referring to her suggestion that they give me the internship. Surely all letters of recommendation would include something of the sort.

“It just so happens that I have a colleague at the University of Chicago, who has a friend that works at Radio 1. And so I may have heard through the grapevine that they’re looking to hire for other positions. You already have a considerable amount of hosting experience, and I’m not really sure that you would get much out of the internship. So, I suggested that they hire you as a host rather than an intern.”

I’m shocked by her disclosure. What on earth would make Dr. Torres think that I’m qualified for something like that? I glance back and forth between her smiling face and Phil’s equally pleased expression. Has it not occurred to either of them that this might hurt my chance of getting the internship that I might actually have a chance at?

“I… I don’t know what to say,” I stammer out after an unnecessarily long silence.

“That’s really cool of you, Dr. T,” Phil says.

“Yeah, um, thank you,” I finally manage.

“You’re welcome,” she says with a supportive smile. “And you really don’t need to worry about not having finished a college degree. The Mallard higher-ups would kill me for saying this, but you really don’t need a degree to be a radio DJ. For production, the training certainly helps, but not so much for on-air talent.”

I nod. I’ve always felt that going to Manchester would be a waste of my time and money, but it’s good to hear that confirmed by someone who actually knows what they’re talking about. I’ll give her credit; Dr. Torres clearly has her students’ best interest in mind. Not a lot of professors would dare to tell a student that dropping out of uni is the right decision.

“I’ve got to run to a staff meeting,” Dr. Torres says after glancing at her watch. “Let me know what they say!”

“Will do!” I promise.

I pause for a few moments and listen to the sound of her steps growing fainter and fainter in the hallway before looking back at Phil.

“Is she crazy or something?” I ask him.

Phil laughs. “Maybe a little,” he admits.

“Well, I think I can kiss that internship goodbye.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“It’s probably fine,” Phil tries to reassure me.

“I need to go work on my editing, but I really don’t want to,” I tell him.

“Yeah, it’s so nice outside,” Phil comments. Then his eyes widen with a sudden idea. “You know what we should do instead?”

“What?”

“Snooki’s just re-opened for the season. We should walk up there and get ice cream.”

“Oh man, that sounds really good right now,” I admit.

“Then, let’s go!” he insists.

As per usual, I am easily persuaded into procrastinating. Outside, the sun feels pleasantly warm against my skin.

“So are you planning to apply for other radio jobs if the BBC thing doesn’t work out?” Phil asks me as we’re walking across campus.

“Yeah, that’s the plan,” I say. I have yet to apply for anything else as of yet, but I figure that I can focus on that once I’m home. My parents probably won’t start hounding me about finding a job for at least a month or two. Besides, I want to enjoy my time here with Phil while I still can. “I really enjoy making our show, so I definitely want to try and find something in radio.”

“That’s good,” Phil says.

“It’s really unfortunate that our show is just going to end all of a sudden, don’t you think?” I ask. “I mean, it feels like we just got it started.”

“Yeah, it does. But there’s nothing we can do about that. It’s just the nature of student productions.”

We walk down Forest Avenue past the edge of campus. We pass McDonalds, one of the campus bars know for letting in even the shoddiest fake IDs, and the north end of Greek Street.

“Do you think that anyone else would want to take over the format next year, especially since it’s been so successful?” I ask. “Maybe Aubrey would want to stay on as producer.”

“I’ve talked to her about that,” Phil tells me. “I do think that she intends to produce a show next year, but I think she wants to move on to something new. She wants to keep pushing herself forward, not just copy what we’ve already done.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. And it’s not like the audience would stay loyal to new hosts, I don’t think.”

“No, I don't think they would,” Phil agrees.

We cross the street and turn onto Beaver. I’ve driven this way with Phil before, so I know that we’re headed into a residential area. The neighborhood is filled with older homes, at least by American standards, and some of them are quite impressive.

“I just can’t believe that the school year is almost over,” I comment. Maybe it’s because I’m used to school continuing well into June, but I think that the time would have flown by, no matter what the calendar actually said.

“Yeah, this semester has been a blur,” Phil says. “I’m happy that it’s spring and that it’s warm outside, but I’m also sad that school is almost over. But I guess life has to go on. And we’re both moving on to bigger and better things, which is exciting.”

“Well, you are.”

“You are, too,” Phil asserts. “I know it.”

I hang my head and try not to blush. I sometimes wish that I shared Phil’s confidence in me.

We walk for about ten more minutes before coming to a strange intersection where one road forks into two. The ice cream shop is across the street. Snooki’s is a tiny building with only a walk-up window and an arrangement of outdoor picnic tables for seating. The menu is simple, consisting of only vanilla and chocolate soft serve, which can be ordered as a cone, a shake, or a malt with a handful of candies available as mix-ins. Phil orders a chocolate shake with Oreos, while I opt for vanilla with peanut butter cups. I lament the presence of Whoppers on the list in place of their far superior cousin, Maltesers.

While we wait for our shakes to be made, I check my phone out of habit and see that I have a few new emails on my Mallard account. I open the app to see that they are both from bbc.co.uk addresses.

“Holy shit, Phil, I have two emails from the BBC!” I exclaim, only to be glared at by the mum with two small children sitting near where we’re standing. But I can’t even bother to be ashamed; this is too important.

“What do they say?” Phil asks.

I click on the first email, which is from some sort of admin account. “Thank you for your application…. blah, blah, blah… many qualified applicants… blah, blah,” I skim. “We regret to inform you that you were not selected for the summer intern position.”

My whole heart sinks in my chest. I really thought that I had a decent chance, especially after what Dr. Torres said about not really needing a degree. Maybe they weren’t at all impressed by my College Associated Press award simply because it is an American thing. But it doesn’t really matter why. The dream is dead.

“I’m sorry, Dan,” Phil mutters.

“Two shakes,” the teenage boy behind the counter says, extending our styrofoam cups to us through the window.

“Thanks,” I manage to say. At least I get to immediately drown my sorrows in ice cream.

We elect to start walking back while we eat, since it will take a bit of time to get back, and we both have projects that we need to stop procrastinating.

“What was the second email?” Phil asks about five minutes later.

Honestly, I had completely forgotten that there was a second email. I quickly pull my phone back out and open it. This one is from an individual account belonging to a James Campbell. “Mr. Howell, I was most intrigued by your application for our summer intern position,” I read. “There is something I wish to discuss with you. Please call me at your earliest convenience.” I don’t understand. They don’t want to hire me, but they want to talk to me about something? I look over at Phil with a puzzled expression on my face.

“That’s bizarre,” Phil concludes.

This Mr. Campbell probably wants to berate me for the outlandish letter of recommendation my incredulous professor, I decide. Perhaps he feels that I need a lesson in professionalism. I check the time on my phone. It is just after noon here, which means that it’s after 6 PM in London. It’s after normal business hours, so I consider waiting until Monday to call. But then again, someone just sent me this email, and it does say to call at my earliest convenience.

I wait until we get back to campus so that I can call over wifi. Phil sits with me in the Carpenter lobby for moral support. I dial the number, and the line rings four times before an answering machine kicks in.

I wait for the tone, and then say, “Hello, my name is Dan Howell, and I received an email asking me to call –”

There’s a click before I finish my sentence, and then a man’s voice says, “Hello, Dan, thank you for calling so promptly.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “How can I help you?”

“In reviewing your application, I came to realize that you and your American friend have been making quite a stir online,” he says. He pauses, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. “The young people are all online these days; they don’t care about radio. But you’ve gotten them to  _ watch _ a radio show online, and not only that, but they seem to be genuinely engaged with it.”

He pauses again, and I feel that I have to say something. “Um, yes, sir.”

“That's exactly what I’ve been trying to do for – god, I don’t know – five years?” Mr. Campbell asks, but I haven’t a clue. “In short, Dan, I’d like to give you a show.”

“You want to give me a show?” I repeat, because that cannot possible be real. Phil’s eyes easily double in size when he hears those words, and his mouth hangs slightly open in utter disbelief. My own fucking show on BBC Radio 1? This is so much better than I could have ever expected.

“Yes, but I’ll need to pitch it to the creative development committee in order to make that happen. It would be a request show, just like you’ve been doing. I need you to send me a pilot episode by Monday the 15 th at the latest. Is that something that you can do?” he asks.

“I… Yes! Yes, I can do that, sir!” I eventually manage to say.

“Excellent. I’ll forward you the details.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much for this opportunity.”

“Make it shine, Dan,” Mr. Campbell adds before promptly hanging up on me.

“Oh my fucking god,” I say to Phil before telling him every detail of the conversation that he only heard half of. “Will you help me film a pilot?” I ask in conclusion.

“Yeah, absolutely! Of course,” he says.

I’m so glad that I have Phil to help me with this, because I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’ve just gotten myself into. 

 

 


	36. Dead Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

At the end of each semester, Mallard University cancels all classes on the Friday before the beginning of final exams. Professors are forbidden from having assignments due on that day, and organizations are encouraged to not hold meetings of any sort. Officially, it’s called a Day Free for Study, but we students all call it Dead Day.

Phil and I should probably be using this time to study for our finals, but as per usual, we have other priorities. For me, it makes sense. Landing a job at BBC Radio 1 would be far more significant than earning good marks on my exams here. I’ve decided that I’m not returning to uni next year, so I don’t even need the credits to transfer. Phil, on the other hand, probably really should be studying or working on his final papers. But here he is, spending Dead Day huddled in a corner of the upper floor of the library helping me plan my pilot episode for Radio 1.

“Why can’t I just send them a tape of one of our regular show? I mean, honestly,” I complain.

“No, Dan,” Phil reminds me in an exasperated voice. “They want to hear what your show for Radio 1 would be like, not what our show for The Duck is like.”

I roll my eyes. Fuck them and their actually very reasonable demands.

“It’s going to be fine, Dan,” Phil assures me. “I know that you’re going to really impress them, because you’re awesome.”

I groan and lean my face down on the worn, wooden table. Phil is wonderfully supportive, but sometimes his kind words are simply too much. They play against my own insecurities in a way that is more abrasive than comforting.

“I just think it’s going to be so awkward not having anyone to talk to,” I say, sitting up like a normal human again. Phil’s going to produce the episode for me, but I’m not going to talk to him the way that I normally do. I won’t be able to rely on him to cover for me when I mess up or can’t find the right words.

“Well, you’ll be able to talk to the callers,” Phil points out. We've recruited Aubrey and Tom to come into the studio while we film to pretend to call into my fake show and make song requests. I’ve implored them not to trying using a fake English accent, but we’ll have to see if Tom decides to listen or not.

“Yeah, but that’s not the same, and you know it,” I retort.

“No, I know,” Phil admits. “It’s going to seem weird, but you’ll get through it. You have lots of good ideas here,” he says, gesturing to the list I’ve written out of little games and other thing to involve the audience in the show. I’m keeping the Internet news, but everything else has had to change since I’ll be running the show alone.

“I just feel like I’m going to make a fool of myself,” I sigh.

“So?” Phil asks. “We’ll just edit it.”

I’m such an incredible fucking idiot. This isn’t going to be a live episode. We can edit it. Why did I not think of that?

“I mean, we won’t want it to feel edited, so we should probably try to do as much in one take as possible,” Phil continues. “But if you really mess something up, we can just cut and start that bit over again, no big deal.”

“Phil, you’re a godsend,” I tell him. “What would I do without you?”

He simply smiles at me and accepts the compliment.

I notice all of a sudden that it seems darker in this room than it did earlier in the morning when we arrived. Tables at the library are coveted and even bartered for on Dead Day, so Phil insisted that we wake up early in order to secure one. I turn and look out the window on the other side of the large space filled with students staring intently at hand-written notes and laptop screens. A swath of dark gray clouds have rolled across the sky.

“I didn’t know that it was supposed to rain today,” I comment.

Phil turns in his seat and follows my gaze out the window. “Oh, yeah, it’s supposed to storm, actually,” he tells me.

The Midwestern United States is known for it’s crazy thunderstorms and tornados that spawn rather frequently in the spring. Fortunately, tornados are not particularly common here in Iowa; they tend to appear in the states just to the south of here, which are referred to as Tornado Alley. Still, they’re not unheard of here. There are small signs in all of the buildings on campus informing everyone to take shelter in the basement in the event of a tornado. I remember asking Phil about them last fall, and he assured me that there have only been two tornados anywhere near here in the previous three years.

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” I comment. I don’t think much of the storm clouds for some time. We go back to our work, and plan out our last regular Sunday show while we’re at it. It starts to rain, and the wind picks up. Still, this isn’t anything particularly out of the ordinary. The claps of thunder increase in frequency, and I start to think about the fact that I didn’t even bring a jacket with me today. No, I’ll have to make it over to the dining hall in the pouring rain if I want to eat something for lunch before we start filming later. And thanks to Mallard’s piss poor drainage system, the sidewalks are bound to be flooded into the Duck Pond for at least the next day or so. Great.

A bit later, I’m startled by the sudden pounding of hailstones on the windows. Phil and I make eye contact, and I can tell that he is somewhat concerned as well. Phil’s from Florida; severe weather normally doesn’t phase him.

“I’m sure it will die down pretty soon,” he says. “Let me check the radar.”

Phil navigates to a local TV station’s website and pulls up the graphic of orange, yellow, and green blotches moving across the region. The darkest colors are centered right over Des Moines.

“I’m no meteorologist, but that doesn’t look good,” I comment.

“No, it doesn’t,” Phil agrees. “We’re in a tornado watch right now, actually.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, nervousness creeping upon me.

“It means that conditions are right for a tornado to form, but there isn’t actually one yet,” he explains. “A tornado warning means that one has been spotted on the ground. That’s when they blow the sirens and we’re supposed to take shelter.”

“Ok, but we’re fine for right now?” I ask. I’m trying not to freak out, but a twisting spiral of deadly wind just doesn't sound like something that I want to experience right now. Or ever, really.

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Phil assures me.

A quiet murmur spreads through the crowd of other students studying in the library. Everyone else seems to be at least mildly concerned about the hail as well. But a few minutes later, the chucks of ice cease falling from the sky. The darkness seems to lighten a bit as well.

The reprieve is short-lived.

The wail of the high-pitched siren is painfully loud, even inside of the building. It’s ominous tone goes up and down in pitch, and then repeats on a seemingly endless loop. The other students around us exhibit widely different reactions. Some seem to panic, and quickly abandon their tables to head for the stairs. Others groan and start packing up their things. Others roll their eyes and turn up their music, determined to stay put and keep working.

“We should go downstairs,” Phil says.

I follow his lead and step away from our table. I turn back after a few steps and decide to grab my laptop. It’s kind of a piece of crap, but it’s my most prized possession. I grab Phil’s Macbook while I’m at it, surprised that he didn’t take it himself. I cradle them in my arms as I rejoin the stream of students heading to the shelter of the basement.

Downstairs, the rows of bookshelves are crowded with people sitting on the floor. It doesn’t seem like the safest place to be. What if the upper floors of the building are ripped away and the shelves are knocked over by the wind? They’d be squished like bugs.  A library staff member eventually comes along and tells them to move to the outer edges of the room.

There’s nothing to do but sit and wait. The group of people next to us includes a girl from Kansas, who assures her friends that this is really nothing to worry about. She’s been through hundreds of tornado warnings in her life, she says. She follows this up with a story about how a neighborhood about a mile from her house was completely destroyed by a tornado ten years ago, and two people died. That part isn’t exactly comforting.

Phil continues to check the website for updates. Aubrey texts me to ask if we’re still meeting to film my pilot this afternoon. If we don’t die first, I tell her. It would give a whole new meaning to Dead Day, I suppose.

But after about 10 more minutes, the storm lets up. The tornado warning is canceled, and the brick fortress around us remains unscathed.

We find out later that the tornado that was spotted “nearby” was over twenty miles away in the middle of a farmer’s field. It was only on the ground for a few seconds, and no one was hurt.

“That’s typically how these things go,” Phil tells me over lunch.

In theory, the worst part of my day should be over, but I still have to actually record my pilot episode, which has the potential to literally make or break my entire career. But no pressure or anything.

“Hey there, I’m Dan, and you’re listening to the request show here on BBC Radio 1,” I say into the camera. I have no idea if the programming developer is intending for my potential show to be visual, in the way that my show with Phil is, but I’m hoping so. That’s what he said he liked about our show, so I would assume that he wants to keep that the same. I introduce the first song, and then mute my mic so that I can talk to Phil while it plays. “Can I just call it the request show? That sounds so boring.” Why didn’t we think of this in our planning?

“I’m sure they’ll want to give it a name, but I don’t think that you need to worry about that right now,” Phil says.

“Right, okay,” I say. I try to shake off my nerves as best as I can and wave hello to the camera. I then grab the whiteboard and draw a quick sketch of myself riding a llama while wearing sunglasses. I write ‘Hello Internet!’ above the drawing, and ‘Call me!’ beneath it. The song ends, and I address the audience again. “Hello everyone! How are you all doing on this fine Sunday evening? I hope you’re having a marvelous time doing whatever you’re doing while listening to the radio, or possibly procrastinating whatever you should be doing by listening to the radio. If you are listening on a conventional radio, I want to let you know that you should check out our live video stream on the Radio 1 website. We've got cameras set up in the studio so that you can check out my ugly mug and play some games with me while the songs play. This is also the request show, so you get to choose what songs I’ll be playing tonight.” I ask the listeners to call in, and read off the Radio 1 phone number that I found on their website. I also tell the audience that if they’re afraid of audience participation, they can also tweet their requests to me.

Surprisingly, my opening segment goes off without a hitch. I guess I am sort of practiced at this by now. “Our first song request comes from Twitter user @UnicornAubrey, who wants to hear  _ Believer _ by Imagine Dragons.”

Aubrey snickers from the couch, because that’s not her Twitter handle, and she kind of mildly hates Imagine Dragons. “Their lyrics are just so repetitive and uninteresting, frankly,” she explains to Tom when he asks about her reaction.

While the song plays, I take my headphone off and try to balance a small rubber ball on the top of my head for the entertainment of my imaginary viewers.

Tom, Aubrey, and Phil each take a turn pretending to call into my show. Aubrey plays the part of a teenage girl who tries to not so subtly flirt with me, no doubt inspired by Phil’s Youtube fans. Tom acts like an aloof boy who just wants to hear some rock music and doesn’t really care about talking to me. Thankfully, neither of them try to change their accents.

Phil, on the other hand, calls in sounding like someone straight out of Lancashire. I make a funny face at him, but I manage to keep from laughing out loud. His accent is fairly believable, which shouldn’t be surprising. That’s probably what his parents sound like, so it’s no wonder that he can emulate a Northerner.

I read out the Internet news after that, and follow that up by accidentally reading out the Mallard phone number. I curse myself for slipping back into old habits, but Phil reassures me that it’s no big deal, and tells me to just start that segment again. It the only major slip-up of the show, and I’m pretty pleased with that, all things considered.

“That was great, Dan!” Aubrey says, stepping over to give me a hug once I’ve signed off. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Yeah, that was awesome, dude,” Tom adds.

“Thanks, guys,” I say. “And thanks for coming to help out, especially on Dead Day.”

“We’re happy to help,” Aubrey says.  

“Was it weird not sitting in the producer’s chair?” Phil asks her.

She gives a small laugh. “Yeah, a little. But you did an excellent job, of course. I learnt from the best.”

Tom and Aubrey head out shortly after that, probably to return to studying. It’s so weird to think that they and everyone else in our FYS will be coming back here next August to continue on without me. But that was always the plan. I was never a permanent fixture among the group, but I’ll still miss them, I’m sure.

Phil and I wait while we export the footage to his external hard drive so that we can edit it later. “You did a really good job, Dan. They’re going to love it,” he says.

“I hope so,” I say. I really, really do.

 

 


	37. The End and the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/).

“All ready to go?” Phil asks the tiny blonde girl that’s just walked up to the desk. It’s Saturday morning, and the last handful of students are moving out of Harlan Hall. I technically moved out of Carpenter yesterday, but simply relocated my things to Phil’s dorm room in this building. He’s an RA, so he has the privilege of staying until Monday, the day after graduation.

“Yup, I think so,” the girl says. There’s an equally tiny blonde woman hovering a few feet behind her, flanked by a tall man with gray hair who seems to be preoccupied with his phone.

“Have you checked your mail?” Phil asks. I’ve probably listened to him ask at least 50 people these same questions over the last two days. He is understandably starting to sound a bit monotone.

“Yes,” she tells him, handing over her mailbox key and her forwarding address form.

“Perfect, thank you,” Phil says. He checks her off of a list by highlighting her name with a neon blue marker. “And could I have your checkout form, please?” One of the other RAs has to fill out this form with the student when they do a final walkthrough of the room to check for any damage.

The girl hands that over as well, and Phil briefly looks it over before crossing her name off of another list.

Suddenly, Phil’s phone starts to vibrate repeatedly on the counter top. The screen lights up, and I see that “Mom” is calling him.

“Alright, you’re good to go!” Phil quickly says to the girl so that he can answer his call. His parents are flying here today, so he undoubtedly wants to answer in case something has gone awry. “Have a good summer!” he concludes.

“Thanks, you too!” she responds.

Phil grabs his phone just before it vibrates itself off of the edge of the counter. “Hey, Mom,” he says. I can hear her voice chattering away on the other end of the line, but I can’t make out her exact words. “Ok,” Phil says. “No, that should be fine, don’t worry about it,” he adds. “Yeah, I’m working the desk this morning, so just text me when you board.” She gives a relatively short response this time. “Ok, see you soon,” Phil says. “Love you, too,” he concludes before hanging up.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Oh, nothing really,” Phil tells me. “Their second flight was delayed a little bit, but it doesn’t really matter since they already made their connection. She just wanted to let me know that they’d be getting here a bit later than expected.”

“Are you picking them up from the airport?” I wonder aloud. He never mentioned planning to do so, but I just now realize that he probably should.

“No, they’re renting a car. My brother and his girlfriend are coming, too, so we won’t all fit in Shadowfax.” Phil’s car will seat five, so I know that he’s including me in “we”. Phil has this whole plan for me to basically spend the weekend hanging out with his family, and that scares the shit out of me. They seem like nice enough people, but I have no idea what they’ll think of me.

“Oh, ok,” I respond. Another student arrives to check out, and I put my headphones back on and tune out the conversation.

It’s so strange to not have a paper to write or an exam to study for. Just like at Christmas, the semester ended rather abruptly, leaving me feeling sort of numb to the world. I’m mentally exhausted, yet I feel a bit panicky every now and again, because I still feel like I’m putting off something important - even though I’m not. Phil has sustained his high level of energy because he is excited to see his family and to graduate. I, on the other hand, am mostly just nervous because I still have not heard back from Radio 1.

The man that called to ask me to record a pilot episode, Mr. Campbell, responded when I submitted the file and said that he was eager to watch what I had sent him, but that was five days ago. He needed the tape on such short notice because he supposedly needed to present it to a hiring committee, or something, this past week, but who knows whether or not that ever happened. Phil keeps telling me to stay calm, that I might not hear anything for a few weeks. He also says that no news is good news at this point, which is valid. At least I haven’t received a rejection email from Mr. Campbell’s secretary. It could be worse.

About 45 minutes later, Phil’s mum texts him to say that they’ve boarded their plane. Phil has to stay at the front desk until 1 PM, which is the move-out deadline for the building. I walk to a nearby sandwich shop and buy us some lunch. It’s the least I can do since Phil is letting me stay with him for these last few nights before I leave on Monday. He insists that it’s no trouble because I sleep there frequently anyway and because he wants me there for his graduation. Still, I feel bad that my two giant suitcases are taking up almost half of his floor space.

I came here last August with only my two suitcases and my backpack, and I’m leaving with the same. I’ve acquired so many things over the past nine months, however. I paid an exorbitant amount of money to the United States Postal Service in order to ship a box of Mallard t-shirts and a few other mementos to my parent’s house. Most of my other superfluous things were given to friends or donated to a charity shop. It’s another harsh reminder that this year really is over, and that I’m never coming back to this place. What’s worse is that I’ve entered my last 48 hours with Phil. It’s fucking depressing, really.

By the time Phil’s family arrives at the airport, collects their bags and their rental car, and checks into their hotel, it’s already early evening. They’re hungry after their traveling, so we agree to meet them for an early dinner.

Phil drives us to the East Village, a trendy area of downtown on the east side of the river. He jerks the car at each stoplight and around every corner. I suppose he’ll never learn to drive a manual properly. He’s selling Shadofax at the end of the summer, since he won’t need a car in New York. It must be nice to have his life all planned out, at least in the short term.

The restaurant that Phil choses is a zombie themed burger place where all of the menu items are names after zombie movies, TV shows, or other zombie-related pop culture references. Phil’s been talking it up for days. He tells me that they also have really good milkshakes that have cake batter in them, and that I should definitely get one since his parents will pay for my meal. But that only makes me feel more uncomfortable.

Phil’s family is waiting for us outside when we walk up. I can easily see the resemblance between Phil and his mum, and well as his brother, Martyn. Martyn’s girlfriend stands out with her petite frame and the short, bright red hair. I hang back as they all crowd around Phil and take turns hugging him.

“And you must be Dan,” Phil’s mum says to me. Her northern English accent is both harsh and comfortingly familiar at the same time.

“Yes, hello,” I respond.

“We’ve heard so much about you, and we’ve loved watching your show this semester,” she continues.

“You watched our radio show?” I ask, both astonished and embarrassed. I frequently made a fool of myself on that show. But I have to remember that I’m meeting these people as Phil’s friend, not his boyfriend. Because that’s not what I am, really. I’m just some guy who loves him, but can’t be with him.  

“Yes, it was quite entertaining,” Phil’s mum insists.

“Did you know about that?” I turn and ask Phil. He smiles and nods. I want to be angry with him for not telling me, but I recognize that it’s probably better that he didn’t.

The hostess calls for “Lester, party of 6,” a few moments later. It feels strange to be included in that description.

I end up ordering a burger called The Walking Ched, which has two deep-fried patties of macaroni and cheese as the bun. Phil’s brother orders an equally ridiculous monstrosity that has two grilled cheese sandwiches for a bun. The other members of the Lester family are less adventurous with their selections, though Phil does order a Zombie Bride cake shake, and insists that I do the same.

During dinner, Phil’s dad is relatively quiet, and Martyn and his girlfriend mostly talk to Phil about what they’ve all been up to recently, and how Martyn is very excited to be able to go visit Phil in New York sometime in the future. Phil’s mum, on the other hand, is mostly preoccupied with talking to me. She asks about my family and where I’m from. She also wants to know all of the details of how I ended up in Iowa for the past year. At first, I wonder if she’s judging me for my unconventional life choices, but she seems like a genuinely nice person. After a while, I decide that she’s just legitimately curious about me, which I can understand.

The weather is gorgeous, so we decide to walk to the riverfront after dinner. I learn that Phil’s family is staying at a downtown hotel just a few blocks away, so Phil and I end up walking back with them before returning to his car. When we say our goodbyes, I thank his parents for dinner and tell them that it was nice to meet them. They return the sentiment, and Phil’s mum even reaches out to hug me right after she hugs Phil. The gesture comes as a shock to me, as I’ve never really been a fan of hugs, especially not from people whom I barely know. At the same time, I know that it speaks volumes for her to be comfortable doing that, and I certainly don’t take that for granted.

“I think they really liked you,” Phil says to me while we’re driving back to campus.

“Yeah?” I ask. Phil’s mum certainly seemed to like me, but I’m not really sure about the rest of them. And I don’t know how Phil could be either, considering that he hasn’t been alone with them to ask their opinions. In any case, his impression is probably a good sign.

Phil and I spend our second-to-last evening together watching Netflix on his bed. Neither of us want to acknowledge that our time together is quickly coming to an end.

When I wake up the next morning, I can’t remember having gotten ready for bed in any way, which probably explains why I’m still wearing last night’s clothes and the TV is still on, displaying it’s screensaver logo which bounces from one corner of the screen to the other. We both fell asleep before we intended to.

Phil’s family is eating brunch at their hotel before heading over for the graduation ceremony, which starts at noon. Phil says that we are welcome to join them, but instead, we opt for one last trip to Huxley South. The tater tots may be stale, and the pizza may be burnt, but Huxley brunch on Saturdays and Sundays were always the meals that we could get on campus all week.

By the time we get changed and head over to the arena, there is a dense crowd of people filling the area. Phil helps me find his family in the crowd so that I can sit with them before he goes off to the student entrance, where he will  march in with his class.

The graduation ceremony itself is incredibly long and boring. There are several speeches from university administrators as well as the Student Body President, who makes a point of reminding her classmates that this may be the end of their college career, but it’s also the beginning of the rest of their lives. Others’ remarks are filled with similar sentiments and supposedly inspirational quotes such as, “whatever you do, do it well.” Then comes the tedious process of reading off the name of each of the several hundred graduating students as they cross the stage one by one to accept their diplomas. Or rather, the covers for their diplomas, because the university holds onto the student’s actual diploma until their grades are finalized and their accounts are settled. The process usually takes about a month, I’m told. I end up talking to Martyn about Pokemon during most of the procession. Maybe I wouldn’t be such an outsider within Phil’s family after all. But that hardly matters in the grand scheme of things.

After the ceremony finally ends, it takes a decent amount of time to find Phil among the crowd of graduates and their guests. Then there are photos to be taken, of course, and we end up visiting several different locations around campus for that purpose, including Painted Street and the College of Journalism and Media Studies sign outside of Meriden Hall. I can tell from Phil’s face that he’s really only doing this to please his mother.

In the evening, we go to a fancy Italian restaurant in West Des Moines to celebrate. Phil’s dad tells me to order anything I like. He also orders several bottles of wine for the table, and the waiter doesn’t question it when he serves me a glass. Phil raises an eyebrow at me from across the table, but he doesn’t say anything either.

Throughout the meal, I keep thinking that I’m only meeting these people now, at the end of my time in America. Because like it or not, I’m flying home tomorrow.

In the morning, Phil and I will wake up early and abruptly to the sound of a blaring alarm. If we manage to leave on time, we might stop for coffee at Starbucks. But more likely than not, we’ll be running late, and Phil won’t want me to miss my flight. So we’ll go straight to the airport, where Phil will drop me off at the curb, just like he did at the end of last semester. Only this time, he’ll undoubtedly get out of the car in order to kiss me goodbye. And we’ll stand there with our arms wrapped around each other for much longer than is socially acceptable. We’ll try not to cry, but I don’t know if we’ll be successful. The strangers staring at us won’t understand, because they’ll assume that we’ll see each other again soon, and that we’re just being overdramatic. They won’t understand that we’re saying goodbye forever.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The burger restaurant featured in this chapter is called [Zombie Burger](http://www.zombieburgershakelab.com/des-moines-downtown/). I highly recommend it!


	38. Transatlanticism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I'm going to be out of town this weekend, so you get this week's chapter a few days early. Only two more to go! 
> 
> I recommend listening to [Transatlanticism](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3b6hDCIeDk) by Death Cab For Cutie while reading. The song heavily inspired both this chapter and chapter 39. 
> 
> Betaed by [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/), who is literally the best.

The bright afternoon sunlight streaming through my bedroom window tells me that I really should be out of bed by now. There are birds singing out in the garden, echoing the same message. My brain, however, cannot seem to muster the motivation to move. Jetlag is a real bitch. Or maybe it has more to do with the fact that I don’t want to be here and I still don’t have a firm answer as to what I’m doing with my life.

Surprisingly, my parents have been relatively okay with that, at least for now. I think that Mum is just happy to have me home. The sentiment will likely wear off shortly, and then the loaded questions will start to roll in. I’ve mentioned that I applied for an internship with Radio 1, but not that I submitted a pilot to them. As the days go by, that opportunity seems to be slipping away. I just hope that my parents give me the chance to keep applying for radio jobs and don’t try to force me to go back to school in the fall. But I don’t foresee that happening. No, I think that they mostly just want me to move out and become a real adult. And I want that, too.

I reach over and grab my laptop from my bedside table. I wait a few moments for it to connect to the wifi, and I hold my breath while my email refreshes. I’m hoping for something from the BBC, because they still have not gotten back to me about the pilot episode that I submitted. It’s also possible that I might have a message from Phil or from one of my other Iowa friends. But alas, there’s nothing but a few items of junk mail.

I sigh aloud even though there’s no one to hear me. I miss Phil so, so much. I’ve been back at my parent’s house for four days now, but it’s still a shock to wake up without him every morning. I miss his smile, and the way that he would always stroke my hair. I miss his laugh, especially his real, uncontrollable laugh that he only lets out when he really can’t help it. I try to replay that sound in my mind, but I find that I can’t quite remember the exact details. It feels off somehow, or far away.

I wonder if memories are like old VHS tapes, if the more you replay them, the fuzzier they become. God, it’s only been four days. How is Phil already fading away from me? Over the past several months, Phil intertwined himself into nearly every facet of my life. Being ripped away from that has felt like ripping myself apart as well. And my memories of him are only false illusions, cheap copies of the real thing.  

Mum says that I’ve been moping around the house ever since I got back. I tell her that it’s because I’m tired or because I miss my friends. Really, it’s because I feel like I left a piece of myself on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. I wonder what he’s doing today, if he’ll go to the beach, or maybe film a Youtube video. And here I am, still lying in bed at 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

I manage to drag myself downstairs to the kitchen before I’m completely enveloped in a whirlpool of self-doubt. The family dog trots over to greet me while I rifle through the fridge.

“Are you happy to see me, or are you just begging for food?” I ask him. I scratch behind his ear for a few moments before he gives up and ventures back to his bed in the other room. So even the dog wants nothing to do with me. That figures.

As I’m making myself a sandwich, I notice a large manila envelope on the counter. There’s a blue sticky note on the front of it written in my mother’s handwriting.

_ Dan – this came for you late last week. I forgot all about it until you mentioned Radio 1 at dinner last night! _

Sure enough, the return address is for BBC Radio 1.

Adrenaline courses through my veins. Fuck, what if this is a job offer? But it could just as easily be a rejection letter. Would they really send a rejection in a fancy ‘please do not bend’ envelope? Why not just email me? But if they’re offering me a job, why didn’t they call?

So many questions, and only one way to find out.

I tear open the seal at the top of the envelope. I pull out a small stack of papers. There is short, typed note at the front.

 

_ Dan, _

_ I wasn’t sure exactly when you said you were leaving the States, so I thought it best to send the packet to the permanent address that you provided. Please call me at your earliest convenience. _

_ Best, _

_ J Campbell _

 

I quickly skim through the rest of the pages. It’s not a rejection letter; it’s an offer of employment. I let out a breath that I didn’t realize I was holding, but my heart only races even faster than before.

Can this actually be real? Am I actually holding an employment contract from BBC Radio 1 in my hands right now?

I have to call Mr. Campbell. There’s a possibility, slim though it may be, that I’ve waited too long and that he’s changed his mind. I quickly find my phone, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I type in the number and stare at the screen for a good two minutes before I actually work up the courage to hit the call button. It rings twice, and then I have to speak to a secretary, who patches me straight through to Mr. Campbell’s desk phone.

There is a click on the other end of the line.

“Dan! Just the fellow I’ve been hoping to hear from,” Mr. Campbell says in greeting.

“Yes, sorry for the delay, but I only just received the package from your office,” I say. It’s only a half-truth, but my future employer doesn’t need to know that said packet and I have been in the same house for four days now.

“That’s quite alright,” he responds. “I hope you’re calling to accept the position?”

“Yes, I am,” I say despite the lump in my throat. I’m not entirely sure what the position entails exactly, but I did catch the words “full time” and “show host”, so that’s more than good enough for me.

“Excellent! I’ll have my assistant schedule a time for us to meet on Monday. Will that work for you?”

“Sure,” I reply, and then immediately question whether or not that response sounded professional enough.

“Great! We’re all very excited to have you join the team, Dan.”

Before I have the chance to say thank you, the line clicks again, and I’m back with the secretary. She schedules my meeting for 10 AM on Monday morning.

The entire call is over in less than 5 minutes, and even once it’s over and I know that this really is happening, I’m still shaking with nervousness. 

I have to tell Phil. I have to talk to him right now. I run back up the stairs to my laptop, and pray that he just happens to be on Skype right now.

“Please be online, please be online,” I mutter to myself.

Once my Skype app finally loads, I see that he is. I ring Phil immediately, and hope that he won’t see this as an intrusion. I probably should have messaged him first, but I think he’ll understand why I didn’t want to wait. After three high-pitched tones, he accepts the call.

“Hey, Dan, what’s up?” Phil asks. He’s wearing a Mallard t-shirt and his editing headphones, so I know that he was probably working on a video.

“I got the job!” I burst out. “They want to give me my own show, Phil! Can you believe that? They really, actually want to hire me!”

“Oh my god, that’s amazing!” he says. His eyes light up, and I know that he’s genuinely happy for me.

“Yeah, they just mailed this packet to my parent’s house. It’s been sitting here for like a week, and my mum just forgot to give it to me. Can you believe that? It’s just been sitting here, and I’ve been waiting, and I guess this guy has been waiting for me to call him, too,” I explain.

“Wow, well, congratulations!” Phil offers. “Do you know when your first show will be?”

“No, I have a meeting on Monday morning to work out details,” I tell him. “How have you been? Are you editing this morning?”

“Yeah, I’m working on photoshopping a few things for a video,” he answers. “Do you know when they want you to start? You’re going to have to find a place in London, right?”

“I’m not sure yet. I might stay here for a little while a take the train whenever I need to go in. I probably need to save up some money before I can afford a place in London anyway,” I add.

“Yeah, that’s not a bad plan,” he agrees. “I’m so happy for you, Dan.”

“Thanks, yeah, I’m really excited,” I admit. “But it’s going to be so, so weird doing this without you.”

“Sure,” Phil says. “Honestly, I’m a little jealous. That’s such an amazing opportunity to work for a company like that. If I had thought that I could get a job like that, I might have said no to grad school, honestly,” he confesses.

“Really?” I ask. “Would you have been willing to move to London, though?” I can’t imagine Phil being okay with living that far away from his parents.

“I mean, it would kind of be a waste of my dual citizenship if I never live in England, ever in my life,” he says. “And I have at least one other reason that I might want to move there at some point.”

He grins, and I know that he’s talking about me. I don’t know what to make of this. Before, I was always the one to suggest that we could maybe try to see one another again at some point in the future. But I was mostly talking about short, occasional visits. And Phil had always hesitated, even at that. I never imagined that he would ever think about moving here, let alone doing it to be with me. Maybe the reality of being apart has hit him as hard as it’s hit me.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” I ask. “We could have included you in the pilot, I’m sure.”

“No, I don’t think that would have been right,” he argues. “They asked for a pilot from you, not from both of us. They want to hire you, not me. And I know that you’re scared of doing this alone, but I also know that you can do it. And I think that’s important for you to do it on your own.”

I nod. He doesn’t want me to hide in his shadow anymore, and I get that. I can’t be a parasite to his fame forever. It’s not fair to him.

“I do miss you, though. So much,” Phil admits. There’s a certain glossiness in his eyes, and I can tell that this is hard for him.

“Yeah, I miss you, too.”

But there’s no point in dwelling on that sentiment. There’s nothing to be done about it, at least not in the short term. Maybe Phil will look for jobs in England after he finishes his Master’s in two years, but not right now. It’s something to hope for, though, a glimmering idea to cling to that can help me get through the challenges yet to come.

Maybe we're not done after all. Maybe we’ve just entered into the transatlantic phase of our love affair.

“I should let you get back to your editing,” I say, though there are a million other things I want to say to him. Most of them are something along the lines of ‘I don’t think I can live without you,’ but there’s no use in being dramatic right now.

“Yeah, and I’m sure you have a few other calls to make,” Phil reminds me. “Let me know how it goes! I’ll definitely listen in when I can.”

“Yeah, I will. Thanks!”

We say our goodbyes, and he ends the call.

I send a text to my mum to tell her that I got a job offer, but she’s at work, so she might not see the message right away. Next, I go onto Facebook and send a message to Aubrey. I’m sure she will be just as excited to hear the news as Phil was.

**Dan Howell:** guess who’s going to be the newest dj for bbc radio 1

I get a notification that she’s read the message almost instantly.

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Holy shit, are you serious? That’s awesome!

**Dan Howell:** yup, totally serious. got a letter in the post with an employment contract and everything

**Aubrey Tompkins:** So do you know when they want you to start and what your salary is going to be?

Of course she would ask those sorts of adult questions.

**Dan Howell:** not sure yet. I have a meeting on Monday.  

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Isn’t that in the contract?

Oh, yeah. I haven’t actually read the details of that yet. I flip through the pages of the packet that Mr. Campbell’s assistant no doubt put together for me. There’s a page about the mission and vision of the BBC and of Radio 1. There’s a section about the benefits of working for the organization, including the amount of paid time off I’ll be allotted. Finally, I find my duties and responsibilities. The position is full time, and I’ll be hosting four 2-hour shows per week, Thursday through Sunday. I briefly lament the loss of me weekends from here until god knows when, but then I remember that I don’t have a social life anyway, so it really doesn’t matter. I skim over the remaining pages, but find nothing about my monetary compensation.

**Dan Howell:** they want me to do 4 shows per week, not sure about pay or start date yet

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Wow, that’s great! They’ll probably want to negotiate the details with you in person. Have you told Phil yet?

**Dan Howell:** yeah, he seemed kinda jealous actually

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Well, yeah! It’s an incredible opportunity. I’m a little jealous, tbh.

**Dan Howell:** haha, thanks. how’s chicago?

**Aubrey Tompkins:** Oh, you know, same old same old. Crime rates and temperatures are on the rise. But it’s good to be home. And Tom’s coming for a visit in about a month, so that’s exciting.

**Dan Howell:** that’s cool

I want to tell her that I miss Phil so much, that it’s so much worse than I imagined it would be. But she would probably just tell me that she misses Tom, too, even though that’s not at all the same. So I refrain and keep my melodrama to myself.

**Aubrey Tompkins:** I’ve gtg, but let me know how it all shakes out!

**Dan Howell:** okay, will do

My excitement fizzles away since I’ve run out of friends to share it with for the time being. My new reality begins to take shape in my mind. I’m going to be a real DJ at a real, popular station that people all over the country listen to. It’s a wild, crazy dream come true, and I have no idea how I got so lucky.

I have everything I could want. Well, save one tiny detail. Or more accurately, one gigantic ocean.

 

 


	39. Double Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the penultimate chapter of TANOH! There will be one more short chapter next week just to wrap up a few final things. It's been a wild ride. Thank you all for reading! 
> 
> And as always, thanks to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for betaing!

I feel incredibly out of place wearing a suit and tie in the Radio 1 office. The whole place has this rather casual vibe, and most of the employees that I have seen so far are wearing jeans. But I made it here on time, and I’m mostly awake, so that’s a plus.

I notice that my fingers have been subconsciously tapping away at the arm of the chair for some time now, and that at least two of the other people in the waiting area are staring at me with murder in their eyes. It’s a bad habit that I should have broken long ago, and it’s especially prominent when I’m nervous.

I fold my hands in my lap. I need to make a good impression.

A thin, smartly dressed man walks through a glass door on the opposite side of the room. He’s wearing a jumper over a shirt and tie with a pair of dark wash jeans. He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties, if I had to guess.

“Hi, you must be Dan,” the man says to me, extending his hand. I recognize his voice as the Mr. Campbell I’ve spoken with on the phone twice now.

“Yes, hello, sir,” I say, standing to shake his hand.

“Please, call me James,” he says with a friendly smile. “Let’s head back to my office.”

I follow him back through the glass door, and down a corridor with small glass offices on one side. I notice that the carpet is bright orange. At the end of the hall, we pass through another glass door into a larger office space with an imposing black desk in the middle of the room. The back wall of the office is also glass, and overlooks the lobby of the building several floors down. I can’t help but wonder if the modern design of this place, with all of this glass, makes the people who work here feel like they have no privacy. But it’s certainly stylish; I’ll give them that.

“So, Dan, let’s talk about your show,” James says after we take our seats. “My plan is to have you work with Emily, who will be your producer, for the next two or three weeks on pre-production. We want to make sure that you’re comfortable in the studio and know your way around and such before we roll with live broadcasts.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” I say.

Next, he tells me about the general orientation sessions that I will have to attend with human resources over the next few days. That doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of fun, but I suppose those sorts of things come with every job. James also mentions that he has scheduled a few meetings with someone from marketing who will design the advertisements and official branding for my show. There’s even going to be a photo shoot, apparently. It sounds like quite the step up from Aubrey’s version of marketing where she basically just harassed people on twitter and asked them to watch the show.

The entirety of my first day is filled with meetings like this, where I’m basically told what is going to happen and how. It’s all a bit overwhelming, honestly. But at least I now have the answers to some of the questions that my friends and family have been asking for several days now.

By the end of my first week, I’ve mostly gotten used to my new routine. The commute is kind of a bitch, though, and it might persuade me to start looking for my own place sooner rather than later.

“So how did you come up with the idea to make a visual radio show in the first place, anyway?” Emily randomly asks me on Friday afternoon. My producer is not much older than me, probably in her mid twenties. She has dark curly hair, and had worn the same pair of black leather boots every day this week despite the fact that it’s June now.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea, to be honest,” I admit. The more we talk about what I want to feel like, the more I feel like I’m chasing Phil’s genius. It’s not that I didn’t contribute a few good ideas here and there, but at its core, our Mallard show was Phil’s brainchild.

“Ah, I see,” she says, leaning her chin on the palm of her hand, her elbow on the table. “I guess I was just wondering what the point of it was. It’s cool, don’t get me wrong, but I was just wondering what purpose it really served. Maybe that would help me understand a bit better.”

She hasn’t flat out said it, but I can tell that this isn’t going as well as she’d hoped. We did a run through of a practice episode this morning, and nothing went terribly wrong, but it also just didn’t feel quite right.

“Well, my friend Phil was a video production student, so that’s how we were able to do it,” I explain. “As for why, I think it was meant to be more engaging, you know? People tend to listen to the radio while they’re doing other things, like driving or maybe at a barbecue or whatever. People don’t really don’t really make plans to sit down and listen to a radio show they way they do with TV. So we wanted to give them something entertaining to watch, and something that they could interact with.”

“To hold their attention,” Emily concludes.

“Yeah, to hold their attention,” I agree.

Emily fiddles with the studio lights, and changes the color of the wall behind me from blue to pink. I’ve noticed that it’s something she does when she’s thinking.

“So, how was your original show different to what you’re doing now?” she asks.

The obvious answer, of course, is that I’m missing Phil. This whole conversation is only serving to validate my fears that I’ll never be successful on my own. The only reason that I was ever mildly successful in the first place was because of Phil. But Emily doesn’t want to hear that sob story.

Instead, I tell her about the little games that Phil and I would play for the camera while the songs played, and how our on-air banter was somewhat reminiscent of one of Phil’s Youtube videos.

“So basically you just need someone to play off of,” Emily surmises. “That makes sense, given your style of humor, I think.”

“Or, it means that I’m just not cut out for this,” I mention.

“No, I don't think so. Some shows are just meant to be a double act. Something as ambitious and different as what you’re aiming for just needs two co-hosts, I think.”

“Except that I don’t have a co-host,” I remind her. And I really don’t think that forcing me to partner with another DJ here is going to solve our problems. Chemistry isn’t something that just develops overnight.

“Yeah. It’s really too bad that we couldn’t hire this Phil kid too,” she laments.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Wait, what do you mean?” I ask, suddenly realizing that her words don’t fit with the situation as I currently understand it.

“Well, Campbell talked about wanted both of you in the beginning, after he first watched one of your shows,” she tells me. “He was disappointed that only you had applied for a position here. He said that American accents are gold mines in British media. He thought about asking you if Phil would be interested, but the hiring committee advised against it.”

“Why?” I ask incredulously. Who wouldn’t want Phil?

“They said it wouldn’t be worth the hassle of trying to get a work visa for a foreigner on such short notice. They wanted the show up-and-running as quickly as possible,” she says.

The irony is too much; I can’t help but literally laugh out loud.

Emily raises a very confused eyebrow at me.

“Are you… Oh my god, are you actually telling me that the only reason they didn’t want to hire Phil was because they didn’t want to fill out paperwork for him to get a visa?”

She nods slowly, clearly still thinking that I’ve lost my mind.

“Emily, he doesn't need a visa!” I exclaim.

“What are you talking about?”

“Phil doesn’t need a work visa to come here. His parents are English. He was born in America, but he’s a British citizen!”

There is a long pause before Emily finally says, “Huh. That certainly does simplify things quite nicely. So, do you think he would do it?”

“I... I’m not sure. But I think he might be interested, yeah.”

Can this actually be happening? Am I really the sort of person that deserves to have their wildest dreams come true? Probably not, but it seems to be happening anyway.

“Alright then,” Emily says.

And so our afternoon quickly turns into requesting an emergency meeting with Mr. Campbell to get approval for our new plan. Several hours and many phone calls later, Emily finds me an empty office along the corridor of glass doors.

“Call him,” she says, pushing the desk phone towards me. “Tell him the job is his if he wants it.” She even steps outside to give me a bit of privacy.

I text Phil before I call him just to warn him that yes, he should answer the impending call from the strange international number.

“Hey Dan, how’s it going?” he says when he picks up.

“Well, the show’s not really turning out how we'd hoped,” I tell him. “There’s just something missing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Why are you calling me instead of using Skype?”

“I’m calling you from work, so they’re footing the bill,” I explain. “I’m calling to ask for your help.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Okay, so, this is so totally crazy, but… Okay, what if I told you that we’re convinced that what’s missing from the show is you?”

“Dan, I’m sure that’s not true,” he interjects.

“It is, though. Just listen, okay?” I insist. “What if they would be willing to hire you, too? You told me last week that you would consider forgoing grad school for an opportunity like this. So, did you mean that? Would you actually consider it?”

It all comes down to this moment. Radio 1 wanting to hire Phil means nothing if he’s not willing to come. And being with him again, really being with him this time, would mean everything to me.

There is a long pause. I hold my breath.

“Are you saying that they’ve offered me a job, or that you think they might be willing to offer me a job if you ask?”

“I’m saying that they would have offered it to you a long time ago if they had known that hiring both of us was an option,” I explain. “They want our original show, not my pathetic one-man, watered down version of it.”

“They want our show,” he repeats, sounding stunned.

“Four nights a week, on nationally syndicated radio with an online video broadcast,” I add.

“And I can still make Youtube videos?”

“Yeah, I asked them about that, and they’re totally cool with it. It’ll be good publicity, just like it was for Mallard,” I say. “And it’s decent money, Phil. If we live together, we could definitely afford to get a place in London.”

“So you want me to move to London, and for us to live together?”

“More than anything in the world,” I state.

Another pause. I feel like I’m going to burst from the anticipation. What if it’s just not enough for him? What if I’m not enough?

“Well, I don’t know how I can say no to that,” he says with a small laugh.

“Do you need some time to think about it?” I offer. This is a huge, life-changing thing that I’m asking of him, and it wouldn’t be unreasonable to want to sleep on it. “Do you need to talk to your parents first?”

“No, I sort of already have talked to them about it. Not this specifically, of course, but I know that they’re okay with me moving to the UK at some point, and they’re also okay with me not going to grad school.”

“So… So are you saying that you’ll do it?”

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

“Yes!” I shout, making far too much noise for this office environment. But the people at their desks can judge me all they want; I don’t give a single flying fuck. Phil and I are going to be together again. Nothing else matters. “Oh my god, yes!”

I turn back and see Emily smiling at me through the glass wall. I give her a thumbs-up, which she returns. I wonder if she has any idea just how much this means to me.

“I guess I’ll start looking for flights,” Phil says.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll start looking for flats,” I add.

And just like that, the pieces of my life seem to fall into place.

Suddenly, I feel complete.  

 

 


	40. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the final chapter. This story has been such a huge part of my life for the past year, and it's very strange that it's over now. First, I have a few people that I need to thank. 
> 
> Thank you to [thequeenofmysticalcheese](http://thequeenofmysticalcheese.tumblr.com/) who first made me believe that I could take on a project this large, and to [amethyst-winter](http://amethyst-winter.tumblr.com/) for providing a few rather interesting plot ideas. 
> 
> Thank you to [ramblingsofapharmacist](http://ramblingsofapharmacist.tumblr.com/), who has been my phandom buddy for several years now, and who listened to me talk about this story on more occasions than I can count. 
> 
> The hugest of thank yous to [faulty-wifi](http://faulty-wifi.tumblr.com/) for being my beta. I don't think you had any idea just how long this was going to end up being when you first agreed to do this. You've fixed hundreds of typos, and never complained about it once. You have made this story so much more than it would have been otherwise, and I want you to know that your work is greatly appreciated. 
> 
> Thank you to all of you for reading this. I probably would have written it anyway, but it would have been much less fun without all of your comments along the way.   
> And lastly, thank you to TANOH!Dan for letting me take a look back at my own university experiences through his eyes. I will miss him greatly. 
> 
> But no one wants to hear me talk anymore, so I'll let him take it away one last time.

I wake up on Sunday morning to the sound of something clattering to the floor in the kitchen. Phil probably dropped a plate or a coffee mug, if I had to guess. I just hope that he hasn’t cracked one of the kitchen tiles. The landlord specifically mentioned that he’d just redone that area, and he seemed quite proud of it for some reason. The smell of bacon draws my attention further away from sleep, but it’s not quite enough to entice me to escape my cocoon of blankets just yet.

It’s amazing to think how drastically my life has changed in just over a week. Last weekend, I made a bunch of phone calls and toured several different flats before eventually settling on this place. The layout is a bit odd, and there are an outrageous amount of stairs, but it’s fairly modern and was within our budget. I think it was so cheap because of the construction going on next door, but I was told that that should be finished within the next few months.

The place is still filled with boxes. Most are packed with things that I was able to bring from my parent’s place. Some are pieces of Ikea furniture that we have yet to put together, and there are a few more boxes that are still coming in the post, filled with a small selection of mementos that Phil sent from the States before he left. 

I picked up the keys on Wednesday, and my parents were able to help me move in on Thursday and Friday. On Saturday, Phil arrived. I went to meet him at the airport, of course, not wanting to delay our reunion by even a second. He looked so tired, but so happy to see me at the same time. I had originally planned on playing it cool and waiting for him to walk up to me, but when I saw him, I couldn’t help but run up to him and throw my arms around his shoulders. I just wanted so badly to hold him tight and never let go.

It was only yesterday that Phil stepped off of the escalator and back into my life, but it already feels like a small lifetime.

I’ll never understand what I did to deserve all of the wonderful things that have happened to me in the past year. I feel so unbelievably lucky to have met Phil, and to have somehow found a way to keep him in my life. He brings me so much joy, and he manages to make me a better person at the same time. He has given me the confidence to pursue my dreams, and the support to help me do just that.

I smell coffee now, and I’m just about to get up when Phil appears in the doorway to our room carrying a steaming mug and a plate of food.

“Good morning, Dan,” he says, setting the plate down on the box that’s currently serving as a bedside table, handing me the coffee. He’s wearing a old Mallard t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. “Happy birthday,” he adds. I’m not really surprised that he remembered, but I hadn’t even mentioned today being my birthday, so I wasn’t expecting him to make a big deal of it.

He sits down next to me on the bed and kisses me on the cheek. This is already by far the best birthday I’ve ever had. My eighteenth year turned out far better than expected, and nineteen is looking even brighter.

“Thank you,” I say. “But you didn’t need to make me breakfast, Phil.” I glance over at the plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and strawberries. So this is why he’d insisted on going to Tesco yesterday.

“I know, but I wanted to,” he returns.

“You’re the best,” I say. I set the coffee down and grab the plate, wanting to eat the eggs before they get cold. “Where’s yours?” I ask, realizing that Phil didn’t bring any food for himself.

“Oh, yeah,” he says, seemingly just now remembering his plate that’s probably sitting on the kitchen counter. He goes to retrieve it. “We should really get one of those trays, you know?” he suggests when he walks back into the room.

“Do you plan on making breakfast in bed a regular thing, then?” I ask.

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug.

“Hmm, that sounds nice,” I admit. “But we should probably work on buying some furniture first.”

As of right now, our bedroom consists of a giant wicker bed that came with the place for some inexplicable reason, an Ikea wardrobe that we still need to put together, a few suitcases filled with our clothes, and a sundry assortment of boxes.

“I suppose we could do with a dresser and maybe a nightstand or two,” Phil admits. “But that’s a problem for another day.”

“Is it?” I ask.

“Well, it’s your birthday. If you want to go furniture shopping, we can. Or we can stay in bed all day, or maybe play some video games later on. Whatever you want,” he offers.

I nod, and we finish our food while discussing our various options.

“We should probably do something productive today,” I conclude. “Our first live show is a week from Thursday,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but we'll be ready,” he says. “This time, you’ll have to teach me all of the buttons.”

I laugh a little at that notion. I might have started at Radio 1 a few weeks ahead of him, but I have no doubt that he'll return to being the expert in no time.

“So maybe we can just stay here for a little while,” I suggest while stacking the plates on the box to my right. I turn back and stretch out on the bed, and he follows my lead. I snuggle up to his side and lay my head on his chest. He circles his arms around me and gently strokes my back, sending tingles down my spine. “I love you,” I say, because I can never say it enough.

“I love you, too,” he returns, and then softly kisses my forehead. I’ve never felt so safe and secure, or so loved.

We may not have much, and what we do have may mostly still be packed away in cardboard cubes, but I already have everything that I could ever want, everything that I’ve been longing for.

Right here is where I belong.

Here, in his arms, I am home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [wallflowerchronicles](http://wallflowerchronicles.tumblr.com/).


End file.
